Inscribed in Air & Fire
by Snape-Ophelia
Summary: Snape/OFC. A new teacher at Hogwarts catches Voldemort's eye and is thrown together with the angsty, edgy, and ever-so-sexy Potions Master.
1. Chapter 1

**This is an SS/OFC love story.  Just so you know, it is *not* SS/HG.  **FanFiction.net doesn't offer an 'Original Character' option for pairings, so I listed it under the canon ship that is closest to the dynamic I'm working with.  If you like adult-themed stories with Severus and a grown-up Hermione, then give this a try—it's similar to SS/HG but with a few original twists. :)

This fic is rated 'R' for a reason, so please don't read if you are under 17 or offended by adult themes and sexual situations.   

This will be a long fic and it's a WIP.  Part I, consisting of chapters 1-9, is complete and ready to read.  More chapters will be added soon.  

There is some artwork that goes with the story at Erised if you want to take a look.  (Only a couple of pics now, but other graphics will be added later.)  

**Summary/Teaser:**

Annwyd Gwir was once a student at Hogwarts…but not a good one.  In fact, she was sent home in disgrace.  However, as Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort rally their forces for the coming war of power, the headmaster decides that even obscure and disreputable talents like Annwyd's might be of use in the struggle ahead.

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord has reached the same conclusion.

When Annwyd accepts a teaching position at Hogwarts, she has no idea that past failures and unruly students will be the least of her worries.  Nor does she expect to find herself allied with the professor she once avoided at all costs – the intimidating and ill-tempered Potions Master.

As circumstances throw them together, Annwyd becomes increasingly fascinated with the enigmatic Professor Snape.  But her one friend at Hogwarts, Professor Lupin, is giving her earnest warnings not to trust him….

Meanwhile, Severus Snape is finding his role in this particular game challenging in ways he would not have predicted.  The shy new instructor *should* be easy enough to manage – if only she didn't evoke a part of his past he would rather forget.

Snape is well-acquainted with the demands of intrigue and deception, well-practiced at negotiating his way through dangerous mazes.  But the interior landscape of buried guilt and desire is terrain he would prefer not to navigate, terrain he would rather avoid.  If he had a choice….  

****

****

**_ Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**Chapter 1**

Annwyd Gwir was nervous.  She had seldom been in London and, during the last few days, had found the city quite overwhelming.  She could not imagine wanting to live anywhere so large, so noisy, and so _crowded_.  

She hated crowds.  The presence of too many other people always left her feeling drained and confused…disoriented.  She had already gotten lost in the city twice while attempting to do simple errands.  

Yesterday morning, before doing her shopping in Diagon Alley, she had first paid a visit to the train station…just to be certain she could find it.  And in spite of that precaution, she had still been terrified that she would get lost this morning and arrive too late, which was why she had in fact arrived two hours ahead of time.  She was not generally much of an early riser, but last night she had hardly slept anyway, and the early start would relieve _one_ of her worries.  Now she faced a dull, sleepy wait on the platform, but at least she knew she wouldn't miss the train.  

Humming softly under her breath, she tried not to fidget.  It would be nice to _appear_ confident when she reached her destination and her new employer, regardless of how many jitters she actually felt.  So, she resolved, she might as well start acting the part.  

She tried to assume a dignified posture on the bench and to affect an air of being in command of self and circumstance.  But as soon as she let her mind drift a little, she would find her hand twisting and untwisting a lock of hair at her shoulder or gathering a fold of her skirt into little rosettes.  As soon as she forced the wayward hand to behave, a foot would start idly kicking her shabby traveling case or tracing spiraling patterns against the pavement.  

_I am not eleven years old_, she reminded herself.  At the moment, that was difficult to remember.

After several long moments of idle fiddling and numerous glances around the empty platform, Annwyd opened the traveling case and removed a book.  Like the case itself, the book was covered in worn black leather and had seen its share of handling.  The gold letters on the front were faded and nearly illegible, but she knew it said _Hogwarts, A History_. 

She had read the book before, many times, and she was undoubtedly too sleepy and distracted to glean any new insights from its yellowed pages.  But if she couldn't manage to sit and wait calmly, she might at least pretend to be occupied.  At any rate, it was better to thumb through the familiar words than to think about her own personal history at Hogwarts…much shorter than the one in the book…and more unpleasant.

She flipped slowly through the story of the four founders and the creation of the Hogwarts Houses, pausing, as she always did, at Ravenclaw.  _Her_ house, for the short time she had been a Hogwarts student.  She looked wistfully at the blue crest and the eagle with outstretched wings.  It had been over twelve years since she wore that crest on her robes, but it never failed to conjure a host of emotions.  

She could still remember vividly her eleven-year-old terror as she stood at the front of the Great Hall and lifted the Sorting Hat, and her excitement when the hat called out "RAVENCLAW!" and a table full of older students had cheered and clasped her hand.  She could remember with equal clarity the taste of blood in her mouth as she bit down on her tongue to keep from crying and handed the robes with the blue crest back to the headmaster.  _Most unfortunate and regrettable…_Dumbledore had said, not unkindly.  

The next day, her mother's brittle voice had harbored no such undertone of sympathy.  _When I said I hoped you'd distinguish yourself at Hogwarts, _this_ was not the distinction I had in mind_.  Her mother had always had a knack for stating the obvious…and the hurtful.  

_Oh yes, I certainly did _distinguish_ myself_, thought Annwyd, _a real once-in-a-century achievement_.  

Students didn't fail out of Hogwarts for lack of talent.  The occasional layabout or slow learner might have to stay for an extra term or even an extra year to graduate.  More rarely, a student left voluntarily or was expelled for a serious infraction of the rules.  But students who lacked the magical ability to succeed simply weren't admitted in the first place.  That sort of thing just never happened.  _Almost never_, Annwyd corrected herself.  It wasn't mentioned in _Hogwarts, A History_, but there had been a handful of cases over the centuries, a handful of embarrassing mistakes.  

Like her.  

She slammed the book angrily.  _This isn't helping.  It's stupid, stupid, stupid to dredge it all up_.  But under the circumstances, she could hardly avoid doing so.  Fifteen years ago she had sat on this same bench on Platform 9 ¾ , waiting for her first ride on the Hogwarts Express.  Three years later, she'd sat here in disgrace, waiting for her mother to collect her.  And now she was waiting once again, going back to Hogwarts.  Not as a student this time.  As a teacher.

She glanced up and down the platform, confirming that it was still deserted.  

Raising her left hand, she drew a design in the air—a design she had drawn often, especially during the last several months.

An old man appeared on the bench beside her.  His clothing would have marked him as an unremarkable Welsh villager with a limited income, but his eyes were merry and bright and full of depth.

"Good morning, Grandfather."

"Good morning, Annwyd, my little spotted frog," said the old man.

In spite of the day's worries, she felt herself smile.

Perhaps not everyone would be happy to be called a "spotted frog," but Annwyd was cheered by his old familiar habits.  From the time she was old enough to toddle around the cottage gardens, she had been entranced by every type of flora and fauna she encountered, as her grandfather had been quick to notice.

He had started with little pet names like "butterfly" and "daffodil," but he saw that the little girl grew bored with any name repeated too often.  Soon he was therefore calling her by the name of every plant and creature imaginable, from briar rose to cowslip, from meadow lark to badger.  Not many people, Annwyd reflected, could make "centipede" sound like the fondest endearment, but Grandfather always managed it.

"Are you sad, weasel?" he asked.

"A little.  Mostly scared."

"Ah."  He nodded.  "And what are you afraid of?"

"Going back there.  To Hogwarts.  You remember how it was, before…."

"But things were different then, weren't they?  They didn't know.  Now they know and they've asked you back anyway, hmmm?"

"You're right," she said, though truly she wasn't convinced that it _would_ be different.  The thought of finally proving herself at Hogwarts—that was a lure.  But the thought of a second failure was too awful to contemplate.

Still, she felt better in the old man's presence.  Even if she was really just talking to herself, she felt less alone and a little braver.

"You'll do fine, ladybug.  I know you'll make me proud.  You always do."

She felt a lump in her throat as she looked into his warm, encouraging eyes.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

But then she heard the arrival of other early passengers at the far end of Platform 9 ¾ .  With a quick movement of her right hand, she sliced at the air.  Grandfather vanished.

Her heart raced.  Had they seen?  

No, it didn't appear so.  The stout, motherly witch and her three children were entirely occupied with their overabundance of luggage, and they clearly hadn't noticed that Annwyd was there.

Nonetheless, she was fidgeting nervously once again, twining a strand of long red-brown hair around her fingers.  It was going to take some time, she reflected, to get used to the fact that her arts were now _allowed_.  And even so, she didn't fancy being caught using them until she arrived at Hogwarts and talked to Professor Dumbledore.

She settled back once again to wait.

~*~

"Miss Gwir," said Dumbledore warmly, taking her hand, "I am delighted to see you again.  I hope the journey wasn't overly tiring."  The headmaster looked exactly the same as he had when she was a student.  _I suppose_, she thought_, when you're over a hundred and fifty, another decade or so is hardly noticeable_.  He still wore the same little half-moon spectacles and his nose was just as crooked as she remembered.  His penchant for purple cloaks had survived as well.  

"Not at all, Professor," said Annwyd in a voice that she hoped was brisk and self-assured.  "It was quite comfortable." 

"Good, good." He said, leading her into his office.  "But perhaps you would care for some refreshment?  Tea?  Hot chocolate?  Brandy?"  

"Tea would be lovely.  Thank you."  She seated herself and tried not to think about the last time she had been in this circular office.

Dumbledore waved his wand and conjured up two steaming mugs.  She reached for one gratefully, happy to have something to do with her hands.  The temptation to fidget was almost overwhelming.  She raised the cup towards her lips—

"Ah, Miss Gwir, I believe that you have taken my hot chocolate."  He offered her the other mug instead.  "This one is tea."  He smiled at her again and his eyes twinkled.

Flushing, she exchanged cups and took a gulp of the tea.  _Dear gods, I'm being an idiot already_.  

If the circumstances had been less trying, she would have felt comfortable in this room.  She closed her eyes for a moment and drew a breath.  Yes, she could feel Dumbledore's presence filling the room, like a warm mist or a low humming sound.  It was a good presence, quiet and undemanding.  She sensed strength in it, sensed that it could be focused into something quite powerful, but at the moment it simply hung in the air peacefully, waiting, not pulling or pressing against her.

She opened her eyes and looked around the room, bringing her thoughts into some kind of order.  All around her, the former headmasters and headmistresses peered out of their portraits with noncommittal expressions.  She wondered if they knew who she was.  She could remember them all shaking their heads sadly on the day of her dismissal—

"I'm sorry, Professor, if I seem a little distracted.  Perhaps I am more tired than I imagined."

"Quite understandable," said Dumbledore with what she was sure was genuine friendliness.  "It is a long trip from London, and a train full of students fresh from their summer holidays hardly provides for a quiet or restful journey." 

"No indeed," replied Annwyd, though noisy students had been the least of her worries.  At last though, the warm tea and Dumbledore's easy presence were helping her to regain a bit of composure, though she did wish the portraits would stop staring.  "But I am very pleased to be here, Headmaster, and I look forward to commencing my duties at Hogwarts."  _Good girl.  That sounded reasonably professional. _

"Ah, yes.  Excellent.  We'll be discussing your duties in more detail tomorrow and of course you'll be included in our faculty meeting." 

She nodded without comment and he continued.  

"This evening, you should be able to get some rest.  The house elves have already taken your baggage to your quarters, which I hope you will find satisfactory.  The only thing I'll require of you before you settle in is an appearance at our Sorting Ceremony and feast.  I'll want to introduce you to the students."

She smiled despite the sudden lurch in her stomach.  "Very good then.  And what time is the ceremony?"  

"As a matter of fact, it's beginning in just a moment."  The headmaster gestured to a clock on the wall; its single hand was a hair's breadth from "Sorting Ceremony."  

Annwyd's stomach did a lazy somersault, and she felt her smile becoming more strained.  Fixing her with a shrewd glance, Dumbledore added, "If you wish, however, you can feel free to skip the preliminaries.  The sorting itself will take quite some time, during which you can freshen up a bit.  I generally make announcements and introductions at the end."

"Thank you," she murmured, relieved at the short respite.  "A few moments to…gather myself would be most welcome."

She finished the last of her tea and Dumbledore escorted her out of the office.  A house elf was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, ready to show her to her rooms.  

"Unless you have any questions then…?  No?  Then I will see you at the feast." 

"I'll be there soon, Professor Dumbledore."

"We are in the habit of using the formal titles in front of students, but in private we are all on a first-name basis.  So please feel free to address me as Albus.  All the other staff members do."

She smiled.  "That will take some getting used to, Professor…Albus.  It just sounds wrong somehow."

"No doubt you will adjust.  And, Miss Gwir, speaking of names and titles—"

"Oh, of course," she added belatedly, "you are welcome to call me Annwyd."

"Thank you, Annwyd," he nodded gently.  "But before I make your formal introduction in the Hall, there is the small matter of your title."  There was a short, not entirely comfortable pause.  "The faculty has suggested that 'Instructor Gwir' might be suitable, but of course you are free to suggest an alternative if you wish."

Annwyd felt her cheeks flushing again, though undoubtedly he had been quite tactful.  _He always was tactful,_ she remembered.  Even at fourteen she had recognized that. "'Instructor Gwir' will be perfectly fine," she managed.  "Since I hold no degree of any sort, 'Professor' would hardly be appropriate."

"It has always been my opinion, Annwyd, that a teacher's merit is a matter of her knowledge and skills, and her desire to share them with her students.  At the end of the day, titles amount to little."  His blue eyes were warm and reassuring.  "Some of the faculty, however, take the formalities rather seriously...."  He shrugged.  

_McGonagall_, thought Annwyd with conviction.

"…but it seems we have reached a happy agreement."

"Yes, sir."

"Then enjoy your brief rest, Instructor Gwir, and I will see you in the Great Hall shortly."

_McGonagall will no doubt be pleased_, thought Annwyd as she turned to follow the house elf, _that I won't besmirch the title of 'Professor.'_  

_She'll be a lot less pleased_, she decided a moment later_, the first time I call her 'Minerva.'_ And that brought a bit of satisfaction.

~*~

Annwyd's rooms were more than satisfactory.  First, she had a small office equipped with all the necessities.  The adjoining sitting room was also small but it looked cozy.  Two armchairs were upholstered in faded red velvet and the bookcases lining the walls were a rich, if scuffed, mahogany.  A small fireplace would keep it warm in winter and the two narrow windows, though providing little by way of a view, would let in the afternoon sunlight.  

On the other side of the sitting room was a spacious and high-ceilinged bedroom, complete with a large iron canopy bed.  Like the armchair covers, the hangings around the bed were old, but the soft textures and dark, warm colors were still inviting.  The chest of drawers and double-doored wardrobe could easily contain ten times more clothing than she owned.  Best of all, the claw-foot tub in the bathroom looked large enough to drown a young elephant.    

In a word, the rooms appeared perfect.  For a moment, she even wondered if there had been some sort of mistake.  She couldn't believe that the senior faculty members wouldn't want these rooms for themselves.  They were not only pleasant and comfortable, but also quite conveniently situated.  Her office opened onto a short hallway that led directly to the school's main entryway; from there, other doors led into the Great Hall and out to the grounds.  A wide central staircase ascended to the classrooms on the upper levels and two narrow staircases on either side descended to the kitchen and the dungeons.  

Annwyd had thoroughly expected to be housed in some remote cellar or tower, half an hour's hike from the nearest classroom.  But perhaps, she mused, the older staff  chose to keep their distance from the students, preferring greater privacy to convenience.  She, on the other hand, was happy enough to be in a central location.  She remembered, with a flash of embarrassment, her habit of getting lost in the Hogwarts corridors—even during her second and third year.

After she had taken stock of the rooms, Annwyd looked around for her traveling case and found it on the floor at the foot of the bed.  _Enough gawking.__  Time to get ready.    _

She opened the case and laid out her possessions on the bed.  When the traveling case was empty, it occurred to her how few things she owned.  The robes that she had purchased the day before at Diagon Alley.  A dress, two skirts, half a dozen blouses, two sweaters, and two pairs of trousers.  Underclothing, shoes, boots, and a cloak completed her wardrobe.  Other than that there was only a stack of books, a parcel of toiletries, and a silver trinket box containing her few pieces of jewelry and mementos.  Surveying her belongings, she was struck with a feeling of inadequacy.  Shouldn't a twenty-six year old own more than this?  Was this all she had to show for herself?  

She picked up the empty suitcase as if expecting it to contain some hidden part of her life that she had somehow overlooked…and was surprised to hear something rattle inside. Peering in, she saw her wand, which had slipped out of its inside pouch in the suitcase.  _Ah yes_, she thought bitterly.  _Much good that'll do me_.  Reluctantly, she added it to the items on the bed.  

She stripped off the none-too-fresh clothes she was wearing and pulled on a clean skirt and blouse.  She added the robes, then turned to inspect herself in the mirror on the wardrobe door.  The robes fit nicely and the moss-green fabric brought out the green of her eyes.  Other than that, however, her appearance could use some work.  Her hair looked distinctly mussy and there were dark shadows showing under her eyes.  

She combed the tangles out of her dark, red-brown hair, wondering once again if she should have cut it before she arrived.  It fell to the small of her back and looked nice enough—when properly combed, at least—but somehow it didn't strike her as very…teacherly.  But, she had reasoned, she could always put it up.  She gathered up the long hair, twisted it into a tight bun, and secured it with a small silver clip from the trinket box.  "Better?" she inquired of her reflection.  _Sure_, came the answering thought, _if you want to look like McGonagall. _Shooting a look of defiance at the reflection, she yanked out the clip and shook loose her tresses.  _Un-teacherly_ was better than _McGonagall_.  

By the time she had brushed her teeth and washed her face, she supposed she had been in her rooms for half an hour.  She wasn't sure exactly how long the sorting would take, but she thought it was probably time to head towards the Great Hall.  Much as she might like to skip the formal introduction, it didn't seem advisable to do so.

She took a final glance in the mirror.  _If I was a student and I was seeing me for the first time, would I be impressed_?  She concluded rather quickly that the answer was _no_.  She looked overly young, slightly travel-worn, and more than a little frightened.  

On impulse, she raised her left hand and, using her middle and index finger, deftly sketched a pattern in the air.  There was a brief, barely noticeable shimmer at her fingertips.  

She looked in the mirror again.  It was still her own reflection…and yet it was altogether different.  She suddenly seemed taller, more imposing.  Her posture and the tilt of her head radiated confidence.  Her hair glowed brighter, her pale skin gleamed, and her formerly plain and slightly asymmetrical features were now arranged with a subtly pleasing harmony.  A small smile hovered at the corners of her mouth, as if she were thinking of some amusing secret.  Her green eyes sparkled with wit and insight.  

_Now_ she was ready to face the Great Hall.  Everyone would know at a glance that she was beautiful, powerful, and intelligent; worthy of trust, respect and admiration—

Abruptly, she sliced the air with her right hand.  The image shimmered briefly and collapsed, leaving only her plain, familiar features and her worried-looking, slightly sad expression.  

She thought of Dumbledore's letter, still tucked inside _Hogwarts, A History_.  At the end of his offer of employment, there had been a post script: _Please do not make use of your talents at Hogwarts until we have a chance to discuss your duties.  Your cooperation is much appreciated_.  

She turned away from the mirror and left the room.

~*~

Annwyd approached the large oak doors of the Great Hall.  From within, came a cry of "HUFFLEPUFF!" followed by a cheer.  The sorting was apparently still in progress.  

It occurred to her now that there must be another door somewhere for the faculty.  She remembered teachers slipping in and out from somewhere behind the high table at the far end of the hall.  That would be preferable to parading through the rows and rows of students, but she had no idea where the other door was located.  She glanced around in the hope of finding a house elf she could ask, but the entryway was deserted except for herself.  She took a breath and opened the heavy door.

Instantly, she felt the jostling of hundreds of human presences.  _There are too many people in this room._

Pushing down the urge to retreat, she closed the door quietly behind her.  Luckily, everyone's eyes were focused on the sorting, so she was able to slide to the side of the hall without being noticed.  She walked carefully along the edge of the room, between the wall and the table of students from Slytherin.  A few of them glanced at her with mild curiosity, but most paid little attention.  That was fine.  The quick brush of unfocused attention was preferable to the pressure of careful inspection.  __

She worked her way to the front of the hall where Dumbledore and the other professors occupied seats at the high table.  There was an empty chair at the near end and Annwyd headed for that.  

In the next seat was a tall, thin man in black robes.  His shoulder-length hair was black as well, contrasting sharply with his pale, angular face.  She remembered him instantly from her student days: the infamous Potions Master, Professor Snape.  

Annwyd's insides began a fresh set of nervous gymnastics.  It did not strike her as a good omen that the only seat available was beside the school's most ill-tempered and unpopular professor.  Already, the evening was shaping up to be every bit as awful as she had expected.

Snape looked up at her approach and his dark eyes fixed on Annwyd's.  She froze in mid-stride, a step away from the table.  She had spent three years in the potions classroom trying her best to avoid the professor's gaze.  Meeting it again, she was not inclined to change her former opinion.  Those glittering black eyes seemed to pin her firmly in place.  She felt exposed and strangely helpless under their scrutiny.  Finally, his eyes released hers and swept over her body from head to foot.   They seemed to size her up at a glance and find her unworthy of any change of expression.  He turned away.  

Annwyd realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale.  She took the final step to the table and seated herself.  A sudden vivid image sprang from memory:  Snape standing over a steaming cauldron in the potions room in the dungeons.  He held a small reddish leaf up to the light for inspection, firmly grasped in a pair of metal tweezers.  He seemed to consider the leaf for a long instant, deciding whether to add it to the simmering liquid.  Then instead he dropped it back into a glass jar, apparently having concluded it wasn't needed.  If that leaf had been conscious, Annwyd mused, she understood exactly how it would have felt.

She pulled her thoughts back into the present as the Sorting Hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!"

Her eyes scanned the long rows of tables.  _Too many people_, she thought again.  Too much human energy bouncing chaotically through the room.  She wanted very much to create a deflection, to trace the pattern her grandfather called _the raincoat_.  It would be hard to sustain in a crowd this size, but as long as no one focused on her specifically, much of that bouncing energy would slide off her like drops of water, leaving her with a little space to breathe.  

Remembering Dumbledore's letter, she forced her left hand to remain still.

Instead, she tried to distract herself by looking at individuals instead of the masses.  Nearest, of course, was Professor Snape.  She hadn't sensed any recognition in his gaze, but that was hardly surprising.  Not only had she been fourteen and scrawny the last time he had seen her, but she had also spent most of her time in class under _the raincoat,_ and she had often used _the old shoe _as well, becoming as inconspicuous as possible. 

In spite of her current lack of defenses, Snape seemed inclined to ignore her.  After his initial inspection, he had not spared a glance in her direction.

Annwyd closed her eyes and focused on just the small space around her, trying to ignore the overwhelming input from the room as a whole.  She was struck once again, as she had been years ago, with the impression that there was something distinctly…odd about Snape.  

She was well aware of the Potions Master's presence at her elbow, but that presence was strangely self-contained.  He was not using any deflection she knew of, not _the raincoat_ or _the old shoe_ or even _the blank wall_.  But there seemed to be a barrier nonetheless.  The energy currents somehow excluded him and he extended no tendrils into the flow.  She could tell that there was a mind in the space beside her, a mind of considerable strength.  But, at the same time, his chair might have been occupied by a statue.  Beyond the mere sense of _presence_, he revealed nothing.  She envisioned something chiseled out of marble, hard and cold.  

Opening her eyes again, Annwyd peered past Snape at the other professors.  Immediately to his right was Professor Sprout, looking slightly grayer and a little plump, but otherwise the same as she remembered.  Annwyd was glad to see that Sprout was still on staff at Hogwarts.  She had always liked the little herbologist.  As one might expect from a woman who devoted her life to plants, the professor's presence had been nurturing and relaxed, full of the calm earthy energies of soil and water and sunlight.  And besides, Sprout was one of the few professors who might remember Annwyd somewhat kindly.  Professor Kettleburn, who had taught Care of Magical Creatures, would have been her other likely ally, but she knew that he had retired some years ago.  

Past Sprout was a man she didn't recognize.  Despite a weary expression and a few flecks of gray in his brown hair, he looked fairly young.  When he saw her looking at him, he returned her gaze with a small, kind smile.  She was grateful for the smile and the flash of gentle warmth that came with it, especially when she saw that the chair next to him was occupied by Professor Minerva McGonagall.  She quickly stared down at the table before McGonagall turned and caught her eye.

A few minutes later, curiosity overcame her and she dared another look down the table.  This time she was surprised to see that the towering figure on the other side of McGonagall was Hagrid, the Hogwarts Groundskeeper.  She was pleased to know that he was still at Hogwarts—from her brief interactions years ago, he had seemed a good sort—but she was puzzled by his presence.  She was almost sure that when she had been a student, only teachers sat at the high table.  

Looking further down the table was rather pointless, as Hagrid's bulk cut off her view of everyone beyond him.  

As Annwyd's eyes returned for a final glance at the others, she caught Professor McGonagall regarding her with a thin-lipped look of appraisal.  Judging by the tightness around her eyes and the hard set of her jaw, the results of the appraisal were not favorable.  Annwyd flinched away as if slapped.

Just then, Dumbledore arose from his place at the center of the table, his head now visible over Hagrid's.  Apparently, while she had been sneaking glances at the faculty, the sorting ceremony had come to an end.  

Dumbledore launched into a string of announcements, which Annwyd found impossible to follow.  Any moment now, he would do the introductions, and her palms had already begun to sweat.  

After a few moments of Dumbledore's voice, punctuated by chuckles and applause, there was a pause.  Annwyd forced herself to pay attention, sensing that this would be the moment.  

"And last but not least," said Dumbledore to the assembled students, "I have the pleasure of introducing three faculty members who will be joining us at Hogwarts this year."  Rows of students fixed their eyes on the high table expectantly.  Annwyd felt the myriad energy tendrils converging on the space around the table.

"First, I would like to welcome back a gentleman already known to some of you—Professor Remus Lupin—who will once again be instructing you in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

The man with the grey-flecked hair and the kind smile arose from his chair and was greeted by a roar of applause and a warm wave of enthusiasm.  Apparently, Annwyd thought, Lupin had been well-liked.  He nodded somewhat shyly in acknowledgement and resumed his seat.

"Next," continued Dumbledore, "I am proud to say that our good Professor Sprout has been so successful at enlarging our collection of magical plants that she now requires the help of an assistant."  

There were a few scattered cheers from the Hufflepuff table, and Professor Sprout smiled in their direction.  A woman stood up at the far end of the table, barely visible from Annwyd's perspective.  

"Please welcome," said the headmaster, "our new Assistant Professor of Herbology, Clarice du Bois."  The dark-haired woman bobbed her head and was greeted by polite clapping.

"And finally, we will be offering an entirely new subject this term."  This caused a few whispers among the students.  Annwyd felt the atmosphere tighten.  "And here to teach it is Instructor Annwyd Gwir."  

She rose awkwardly to her feet and instantly felt hundreds of eyes regarding her.  The sensation was like being hit in the chest with a fifty-pound pillow.  The air rushed out of her lungs in a great wallop.  She imagined herself as a fish, drowning in the unbreathable air, flopping in a vast net of eyes.  She managed a jerky bow towards the assembly and tried to pretend the  room wasn't spinning.

"What's the new subject, Professor Dumbledore?" cried a student from the Gryffindor table.  

"The subject which Instructor Gwir will teach," said Dumbledore, "is the fascinating but long-neglected art of Glamour Casting."  

The headmaster nodded in Annwyd's direction and started clapping.  The faculty and a few students joined him.  But most of them broke into whispered conversation.  The room's energy bubbled with excitement.  She caught the words "illegal," "Dark Arts," and "casting _what_?" but everything else was lost in a jumble of sound.

Annwyd was dizzy.  She couldn't fill her lungs with enough air.  The room was growing black around the edges.  Somehow, though, she performed another stiff half-bow, collapsed back into her chair, and closed her eyes.

~*~

Finally the feast was over, and none too soon for Annwyd.  She had recovered a little of her composure once the welcome distraction of dinner arrived, drawing the crowd's attention to their plates and the simple pleasures of flavor and aroma.  Nevertheless, she had felt no appetite, and she was tired of pushing uneaten food around her plate and trying to ignore the intermittent gawking of curious students.  

Immediately following the introductions, Snape had turned toward her and arched an eyebrow inquiringly.  She supposed he might be asking if she was all right.  At that moment she had feared that she might be violently ill and no doubt she looked unwell.  She returned the raised eyebrow with an ambiguous jerk of her head and then concentrated on her plate.  He appeared satisfied with this brief response and did not attempt to make conversation.  The meal then proceeded in silence.  The other teachers were chatting and exchanging pleasantries, but, being at the end of the table and separated from the rest by the silent Potions Master, she was not included in the conversation.  And, she thought, that was just as well.

After a few final remarks from Dumbledore, the students rose from their seats and the heads of the four houses—Sprout, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape—led the groups away to the dormitories.  The other teachers also began to depart.

Dumbledore stood and stifled an enormous yawn.  "Let's see now…Annwyd, Clarice, and Remus…could the three of you remain for a moment?"  

Annwyd, who was already moving towards the door, returned to stand in front of the headmaster.  She flashed a polite smile at Clarice, whom she now saw to be a small, tidy, dark-haired woman of about forty.  The other woman acknowledged the smile with an amiable nod.  Remus Lupin rose from his seat and moved down the table to join the others.  He looked almost as tired as Annwyd felt.  

"I hope you have all enjoyed the evening's festivities," said Dumbledore.  Annwyd nodded with false enthusiasm.  "Very good.  And you find your rooms acceptable?"  

The three teachers assured him that their quarters were comfortable.  

"Well, tomorrow is a busy day, and I don't wish to keep you from your rest.  There is a faculty meeting beginning at nine o'clock in the staff room.  I will arrange for a house elf to escort each of you."

"I remember where the staff room is," said Professor Lupin mildly.  

"Yes, of course," said Dumbledore.  "Forgive me for being forgetful.  And Annwyd, I was wondering if you would be willing to provide a demonstration for the other faculty at our meeting.  The integration of your subject into our curriculum will be one of the issues under discussion…and I fear that we are not all as informed as we might like."

"Certainly," said Annwyd.  "I'd be happy to.  Is there a particular type of glamour you'd like to see?"

"Oh, I'll leave that to your discretion.  Perhaps a range of different types would be best.  A representative sample of your talents."

"I'll do my best."

"Then if everything is settled, I wish you all a restful night."

After they had wished him a good night in return, Dumbledore exited through the small door behind the high table, Clarice following.

As Annwyd made for the main door on the other side of the hall, Lupin fell into stride beside her.  

"The first night's festivities can be a little stressful," he remarked.

She grimaced.  "I guess it was pretty obvious."

"Well, once you made it through the introduction without fainting, you appeared to be on the upswing.  After that, it wasn't too noticeable."

She gave him a sharp look, trying to determine if he was mocking her, but his expression remained open and friendly.  She was far too tired to do a clear reading, but she was aware of warmth, kindness, an undercurrent of sadness.  And a guarded place, something he wanted to hide or forget.  But in spite of that, she felt that the warmth was genuine.  

Relaxing a little, she said "I don't…do very well with large crowds."

He gave her another small smile.  "Yes, I prefer the students in smaller groups as well."

She nodded.  "Hopefully that should be more manageable. I'm sure I'll enjoy them in the classroom.  It's just having so many of them together, so many…"  She was going to say _so many eyes_, but it struck her that it would sound ridiculous so she allowed the thought to trail off.  "But I wouldn't want you think that I dislike the students.  That would hardly be a promising beginning for a teacher, would it?"

"It seems to work for Snape," he said.  "But no, I wouldn't recommend it."

They had reached the main entryway and the hall that led to her quarters was just ahead.  

She gestured at the door. "My rooms are here…."

"Good night, then, Professor.  Sleep well."

"Instructor.  I'm an instructor, not a professor.  But 'Annwyd' would do just as well."

"Sleep well, then, Instructor Annwyd.  I'll see you at the meeting bright and early."  

"Ugh.  Don't remind me of 'bright and early.'  I would have preferred noon but they didn't ask."

"They never do."  He gave her a final tired smile and turned to ascend the marble staircase.


	2. Chapter 2

****

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**Chapter 2**

The next morning found Annwyd optimistic.  She had fallen asleep immediately after the feast, and felt better for a good night's sleep.  She had hardly eaten a bite the day before, but when a house elf delivered her breakfast tray, her appetite returned with a vengeance.  

Most importantly, she had survived the first night, and today's "demonstration" was more to her liking than last night's welcoming ceremony.  For one thing, there would be a small group rather than hundreds of people.  Also, she would be able to use her talents—was, for once, actually being _asked_ to use them rather than being reprimanded—and that brought a certain level of confidence.  

The wand on her bedside table filled her with a moment of self-reproach when it caught her eye, but today's task was something she could do.  She was dressed and ready when her escort arrived.

At first, she tried to concentrate on the twists and turns they followed to reach the staff room, but after a while she decided that her attention was best focused on the meeting and her plans for the demonstration.  She could ask someone for directions back to her room.

Many of the teachers were already seated in the staff room when she arrived and the others trailed in soon after.  Dumbledore went through the introductions.  The only surprise was finding out that Hagrid was teaching Care of Magical Creatures—an interesting turn of events—but the others were familiar.  Lupin and de Bois she had met last night and the older professors she remembered from her time as a student.

A quick glance across the room assured her that the number of people was manageable—less than twenty altogether.  She felt a sharp flash of hostility from McGonagall, but other than that the atmosphere was neutral, a mixture of morning sleepiness and mild curiosity.

After the introductions and a few pleasantries, Dumbledore stood and cleared his throat.  

"Thank you all for coming," he said pleasantly.  "We have several items on our agenda today, but I believe we will start with our new instructor, Miss Annwyd Gwir.  Many of you have questions or concerns about the addition of Glamour Casting to our curriculum.  Some of these have been discussed already and a few important decisions have been reached."  

Annwyd thought his eyes went to McGonagall at this point.  

"Some of your questions, however, I have asked you to postpone until the arrival of our new instructor.   On many points, she will be more qualified than I to answer your questions.  And happily she has agreed to perform a demonstration for our benefit.  So, if you are ready, Annwyd, I will give you the floor."

Annwyd rose and moved to the front of the room.  She let her gaze pan the assembled professors, but only made eye contact with Dumbledore, Lupin, and Sprout—the faces that seemed most likely to be supportive.  

"Thank you, headmaster.  I am happy to be able to give a demonstration and answer whatever questions I can.  First, perhaps, I should ask how much you already know about Glamours."

"I for one know fairly little," volunteered Lupin.  "I was not present for whatever discussions have already taken place…. Perhaps you should start with the basics."

"Very well," said Annwyd.  "In a word, glamours are—"

"Deceits," said McGonagall.  Another cold flash from the Transfigurations Professor.

"Yes," said Annwyd, keeping her voice steady.  "They are sometimes called deceits.  They are also referred to as cantrips, faerie visions, enchantments of appearance, and other names as well.  The word I had in mind though, was illusions.  In brief, the art of Casting a Glamour is the art of making something appear different than it is."

She paused.  Lupin and Dumbledore nodded.  The others remained impassive.

"Glamours are produced with the voice or the hands.  They do not require wands or enchanted objects.  If no one has any objection, I will start with hand-castings and show you a few of the varieties."  No one objected and she continued.  "One of the easier castings one can perform is the alteration of an existing thing's appearance.  This can be done with inanimate objects, plants, beasts, or persons.  Perhaps someone would be so kind as to select an object in the room…?"

There was a pause, then Hagrid pushed forward an empty chair.  "This do?"

"Certainly.  Thank you, Hagrid."

She considered the chair for an instant—it was plain, wooden, and scratched with much use—then focused on the vision she wished to create and sketched a figure in the air with her left hand.     The chair remained exactly where it was, but rather than an unadorned desk chair, it now seemed to belong in a 19th-century French salon.  The legs and back were carved in delicate Rococo designs and shimmered with reddish-gold gilt.  The seat was cushioned and covered in mauve velvet.  

"Rather gaudy," remarked Annwyd, "but you get the point."

The professors regarded the salon chair.  "Transfiguration without a wand?" asked the new herbology teacher, du Bois.

"It is _not_ Transfiguration," snapped McGonagall.  "The chair remains the same as it always was."

"That is true," replied Annwyd, with a hint of strain in her voice, though she had managed not to flinch at the slap of energy.  "The chair is the same as before.  It only _appears_ to be different."  She moved her right hand and the original chair was again revealed.  "Similar effects can be produced on people."  She scanned the audience.  "Will anyone volunteer for a…new look?"

"Why not?" said Dumbledore.  "I've had this one for the last eighty years or so…perhaps I could do with a change."  This produced a few chuckles.

"The effects," explained Annwyd, "can be subtle or dramatic, as you wish."  She gestured Dumbledore forward and he joined her at the front of the room.  "I could, for example, keep your physical appearance largely in tact while altering small things to create a different emotional impression."

And, true to her word, Dumbledore instantly looked enraged and menacing.  The onlookers flinched back from his sudden projection of sheer malice.  

Annwyd cut off the glamour after only a few seconds, and Dumbledore said, somewhat ruefully, "From the reaction of our colleagues, I must assume that was _not_ a change for the better."

"Well, Headmaster," she replied diplomatically, "in terms of the demeanor you project, there is little room for improvement," he acknowledged the flattery with a nod and a twinkle, "so I thought a change for the worse would be more impressive."

"But," Annwyd continued, "I might also preserve the emotional _persona_ while changing purely physical characteristics."  

She traced the air once again, and in place of Dumbledore was an old woman.  Her clothing was somewhat similar to McGonagall's, though her silvery hair was loose and a bit untidy.  Her expression, however, retained the pleasant warmth of Dumbledore's and her eyes held the same wisdom and glint of amusement.  

"And finally," said Annwyd, "I might produce a more radical illusion."  

Her fingers worked quickly and—with a rather satisfying gasp from someone in the audience—Dumbledore was gone and two identical Annwyds faced each other.    

Dumbledore looked down at the small female hands extending from his moss-green robes.  

"Remarkable," he said in a voice identical to Annwyd's.  "And a good deal less trouble than Polyjuice Potion."

She restored Dumbledore's normal appearance.  "Thank you, Headmaster, for your assistance."

"Instructor, a question if you don't mind."

Annwyd saw that the speaker was Professor Flitwick, the head of her house when she had been a Ravenclaw.  She had thus far avoided meeting his gaze.  He had not been angry at her when her…deceits came to light, not like Professor McGonagall.  He had merely been very disappointed.  And that was hard to face in a different way.

"Can these glamours be cast on yourself as well as another?" 

She managed a brief nod in his direction, then addressed her answer to the room in general.  

"They can indeed."  

She was, in fact, more practiced at glamouring herself than others, so the following display was lightning fast—she aged to an ancient crone, shrank to a skinny girl, sparkled with the beauty of a goddess, towered over them as Hagrid, and finally turned into a birch tree.  She allowed them to gawk at the tree for a moment and then dropped the glamour.  

 "As a matter of fact," she added, once her normal form was restored, "they can be performed on anyone, or even with no subject at all.  That is the second type of hand-casting I planned to show you: creating the illusion of something where nothing is present.  It is somewhat more difficult and requires more practice than changing the appearance of a real object, but if done correctly the results can be just as convincing."

She gestured at the door and it seemed to open.  Through it stepped Professor McGonagall, a twin to the McGonagall in the audience.  The McGonagall at the door surveyed the room with prim disapproval and raised an eyebrow.  "What, pray tell, is the meaning of this, Miss Gwir?" said the apparition in McGonagall's voice.  

Hagrid coughed and Annwyd thought that Lupin was suppressing a chuckle.  The real Transfigurations Professor went absolutely rigid, and Annwyd quickly dropped the rather unflattering glamour.  

_Well, _she thought_, perhaps I did make her a bit more tight-lipped than was strictly necessary…but not much_.

"A form of magic useful for spying no doubt," said the real professor.  Her tone made it clear it was not a compliment.

"It could have that use," Annwyd replied levelly.  "But it is also quite helpful for self-defense.  Perhaps I could have another volunteer?"

There was a pause that stretched out uncomfortably.  Annwyd felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.  _I thought I was impressing them, but maybe they're actually scared…or repulsed_.  She started to do a reading on the room, but just then Lupin got to his feet.  

"Being the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, I suppose a request related to self-defense should be my cue."

She smiled gratefully.  

"Thank you, Professor.  If you could stand over there, next to the door….  Now in just a second, I'd like you to throw a hex at me."  

She turned to face the others.  

"Let us suppose that I am without a wand for some reason."  _No real need to mention, _she added to herself_, how little good a wand would be if I had one._  "Or perhaps I feel that normal wand-cast spells are likely to be countered by my opponent.  In such a situation, most witches or wizards become as defenseless as Muggles.  But that need not be the case." 

She turned back to Lupin.  

"Fire away."

Lupin raised his wand.  At the same instant a giant bat—its leathery wings spanning a dozen feet—flew shrieking towards the Defense Professor.  Instinctively, his attention leaped to the apparition and the hex meant for Annwyd flew harmlessly into the bat.  Lupin had already flung a second spell at the monster before realizing that curses would have no effect.  After all, the bat wasn't really _there_.  Ignoring the shrieking, flapping thing with an effort, he scanned the room searching for his real target.  In the seconds of confusion, however, Annwyd had disguised herself as a chair.  

The monstrous bat winked out of existence.  She allowed the teachers to look around for a moment, failing to find her.  

Shrugging off the glamour, she said, "Thank you, Professor Lupin."

Lupin grinned and made a bow in her direction.  "Very effective."

Annwyd returned the smile, feeling pleased with herself.  She was however also beginning to tire.  She seldom did so many castings in a short space of time—and for a fair number of people—and the bat had been rather difficult.  Her energy level was noticeably depleted.

"Well," she said, trying not to sound weary, "that should give you some idea of the range of hand-cast glamours.  Perhaps now some of you have questions…."

She felt a little shaky on her feet and allowed herself to lean back on the long table behind her.

"Yes," said an older witch whose name Annwyd couldn't quite remember.  Professor Vector perhaps.  "I am wondering about the general principles that make these glamours work.  I have tried throughout the summer to find some theoretical information, but the search has been rather fruitless.  The library seems to contain almost nothing on the subject."

"That is not surprising," said Annwyd.  "Most of the secrets of Glamour Casting were never written down.  Unlike some forms of magic, glamours cannot be learned from books.  They must be learned in person, from a teacher.  And then in the early 1800s…well, I'm sure you're aware of the history.  The books that did exist were either hidden or destroyed."

"A regrettable loss," said Vector.  "The books should have been kept even if they were restricted."  She shook her head and muttered about _the something something Ministry_ under her breath.  "At any rate perhaps you can confirm or deny the theory I was trying to research.  I am guessing that your glamours are created with light and air.  You are manipulating the air to create sound waves and bending the light to create pictures.  Am I correct?"

"A worthy guess, Professor, but I'm afraid that your suggestion would be far beyond my skills.  I believe there are certain kinds of enchantments that work more or less as you describe," she looked to Dumbledore, who nodded in confirmation, "but I understand that they create only fairly simple effects."

"Voices can be carried rather effectively," Dumbledore added, "with projection charms and so on.  Some work can be done with light, but nothing so complex as you have shown us."

"How is it done then?" asked Flitwick.

 "The effects," said Annwyd, "are entirely in the mind.  The Glamour Caster leaves the physical world around her untouched and changes only the way the world is _experienced_.  Rather than manipulating objects—including light and air—the glamours manipulate the 'subtle bodies' of conscious beings.  They work directly on the energies of thought."  

"Mind control," said McGonagall darkly.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, that is correct."      

"Instructor Gwir," said Professor Sprout, "I had always imagined that glamours were only visual, but your illusions seem to speak…and _shriek_." She gave a little shudder.  Sprout was apparently not fond of bats.  "Can you work these deceits on all the senses?"

"Visual illusions are easiest to produce and can generally be the most detailed, but the other senses can be fooled as well.  I am not very talented at taste and smell, though I have heard that some of the great Glamour Casters of the past could replicate the taste and aroma of a particular vintage of wine well enough to fool a connoisseur.  Myself, I can only produce simple, strong smells and very little in the way of flavors."

 Rallying her energy, she focused her mind.  Odors required strict concentration.  For a few seconds, the smell of cinnamon wafted through the room.  Then it was gone, too difficult to sustain.

"I'm afraid that's the best I can manage."

Sprout nodded, apparently satisfied.

"What of the sense of touch?" asked a low, cool voice.  Professor Snape, speaking for the first time.

_Here it comes_, thought Annwyd.  One of the topics she had been dreading.  And it certainly didn't help that the question came from Snape.  He intimidated her almost as much as McGonagall.  At one time, the Potions Master had unquestionably been her most dreaded professor.  McGonagall had only usurped that role because _her_ dislike was directed very pointedly and personally at Annwyd.  Snape simply disliked everyone.

"The sense of touch," she said, in what she hoped was a suitably professorial tone, "can also be glamoured.  It is, however…complicated.  For one thing, it is rather misleading to speak about _the_ sense of touch.  There are actually a number of tactile senses.  They detect warmth, cold, resistance, weight, texture, balance…and so on.  Isolated sensations are fairly easy, a feeling of cold, for instance.  But normal tactile experiences involve many different factors at once.  It therefore requires an advanced glamour to replicate, for example, the apparently simple sensation of holding a book in one's hands."  

_You could just leave it at that for now_, she thought.  But then she decided to plunge ahead.  The other matter would come up sooner or later.  

"There is also another…issue involved.  Many Glamour Casters over the years have refused to engage in tactile illusions at all."  She drew a breath.  "That particular…avenue of work…is most closely associated with the Dark Arts.  It is, in fact, one of the reasons Glamour Casting was banned, outlawed altogether for many years."

"I'm not sure I understand," said Clarice du Bois.

"Crucio, I imagine," said Snape.

For several long seconds, everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath.  The word _Crucio_, harshly spoken, hung in the air long after Snape had finished speaking.  But Annwyd was somehow grateful that he had said it rather than she.  For an instant, her eyes met his and were locked in place by that dark unreadable gaze.  She managed to look away and forced her lungs to continue working.

"Yes," she said quietly.  "Although the exact origins of the curse are now forgotten, there is much speculation that it came from a melding of wand-work and glamour.  Glamour Casting, as I said, works directly on the energies of the mind.  That, of course, is one of its advantages.  It is much simpler to convince you that you see a giant bat where none exists than to actually create one out of nothing.  By the same principle, however, the magic is especially well-suited to the creation of more…intense sensations…than could be achieved by traditional spells alone."

"Are you saying," asked McGonagall, "that the Cruciatus Curse is merely a type of illusion?"

"Not entirely, no.  The curse does affect the physical body in the way of other wand-cast spells.  That is why there are physical after-effects.  But, using traditional wand-cast magic alone, the curse would create pain in proportion to injury.  It would cause sensations by damaging body tissue, just as happens when a person is burned or cut.  The incorporation of glamour in the wand-cast spell…that allows the caster to intensify the sensation while keeping the actual physical damage minimal."

This explanation was greeted with silence.  Annwyd felt tired and slightly sick.  The room seemed to have darkened imperceptibly as her listeners withdrew into their own thoughts.  Looking out at faces of her new colleagues—faces now troubled and closed—she wanted to shout or plead with  them.  _It's not my fault.  I didn't invent the curse.  And you already knew it existed and knew what it did.  It's no worse than it was before just because I explained it.  _

 Dumbledore was the first to break the silence.  She was grateful that his voice remained mild.  "Is there anything else related to…this particular topic…that we should be made aware of, Annwyd?"

She wanted very much to say no.  In fact, she wanted nothing more than to bolt through the door and hide somewhere, preferably somewhere far away from Hogwarts.  But the worst was over, and she might as well finish it.  That was certainly better than going through a similar scene in the future.

"That is almost everything, Headmaster.  But perhaps you should know that…it is perhaps likely that…" She found herself stumbling over her words and paused to collect herself, then continued a bit more firmly.  "The Imperius Curse is probably also a bonded form of wand-casting and glamouring.  Both of the Unforgivable Curses appeared at roughly the same time in history, and they could have been created from similar principles."

 "But the Imperius Curse is about making people _do_ things, not making them feel artificial sensations or see illusions.  They _know_ what they're really doing—they just can't help it."  Again it was the new Assistant Herbologist who voiced this lack of understanding, and again it was Professor Snape who answered her.  

"Pleasure," said the Potions Master.  

Du Bois looked blank and Snape made an irritated gesture, one which Annwyd remembered from his classroom.  He had always been impatient with anyone whose grasp was slower than his.  "Imperio works on the will as well as the body.  Some physical force can be applied, but the real work of the curse is in lowering its victim's powers of resistance.  If an outside force tries to control the actions of the body, the mind will instinctively fight the intrusion.  The curse makes submission…more pleasant."

Annwyd nodded but could think of nothing she cared to add.

"Well," said Dumbledore after another long moment of silence.  "Perhaps it is time to turn to another topic.  Instructor Gwir looks as if she could use a moment of respite."

~*~

Annwyd returned to her seat gratefully.  There were other things she would need to explain and demonstrate eventually, but she was, as Dumbledore said, in need of a break.  The rest of her demonstrations should be easier and less controversial, but they would go better after she'd had a chance to replenish her energy stores.

The next hour or so was mostly devoted to discussion of magical plants.  Professor Sprout had plans to import several exotic species which had never before been successfully grown in England.  There were a number of questions, mainly from Professor Snape, who would no doubt wish to use the plants for his potions, and from Hagrid, who apparently helped Sprout to maintain her greenhouses in addition to his duties as teacher and Groundskeeper. 

None of this concerned Annwyd directly, so she was able to let her mind drift.  

Once Sprout had answered everyone's questions to their satisfaction, the matters of herbology seemed to be settled.  There were a few announcements related to classroom allocation, textbooks, and a last-minute change in the seventh year students' schedules.  

"Before we break for lunch," said Dumbledore as the hour approached noon, "there is one other rather important announcement regarding the three newest members of our faculty."

Annwyd sat up straighter to show she was paying attention.  The others were all listening politely.

"Most of you are aware of the tragic occurrences last year involving Moody and Crouch."  

There were somber nods and unhappy murmurs from most of the teachers which indicated that they were in fact aware of the incidents, but Annwyd had no idea what he was talking about.  Her confusion must have been visible, because Dumbledore studied her briefly and then continued.

"Shortly after agreeing to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts here at Hogwarts, Alastor Moody was abducted by Barty Crouch, Jr., who then spent the year posing as Moody, aided by steady infusions of Polyjuice Potion.  The consequences were…."  He shook his head.  His voice took on a deep note of sadness.  "Alas, _regrettable_ is far too weak a word.  Crouch worked on behalf of Lord Voldemort.  A student was killed, and much other damage was done as well.  I fear that we are living in dark times."

Annwyd was thoroughly shocked by these revelations.  She had heard something in the _Daily Prophet_ about the accidental death of a student at Hogwarts, but Dumbledore's tone implied murder.  And what was this about Voldemort?  Wasn't the Dark Lord long dead, or at least irrevocably defeated?

"The Ministry, as you are no doubt aware, has not released the full account to the public.  They are reluctant to accept the reality of Voldemort's return and insist that Crouch must have been  working alone.  They cannot deny, however, that a Death Eater escaped from Azkaban, impersonated an Auror, and wreaked much havoc at Hogwarts.  Though Cornelius Fudge," Dumbledore's tone now took on a sharper edge, "refuses to aid us in destroying the root of this evil, he is more than willing to demand stricter security at Hogwarts…to prevent another 'isolated madman' from appearing in our midst, presumably."

The assembled teachers waited expectantly, wondering where this was leading.

"The Ministry is demanding that all new Hogwarts staff must work under the strict supervision of a senior faculty member, specifically, under the supervision of one of the heads of houses."  

There was a discontented murmuring from McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick.  Only Sprout seemed unphased.

"I know," said Dumbledore, raising a hand for quiet.  "As the head of a Hogwarts House, each of you have many responsibilities already.  However, we must pick our battles wisely."

Flitwick's expression was weary.  McGonagall looked indignant.  And a sudden wave of fury radiating from Snape's side of the room told Annwyd not to glance at the Potions Master.

"In many ways," Dumbledore continued, "the Ministry goes its way and we go ours.  But we cannot afford to sever our ties entirely, and we cannot dig in our heels, so to speak, on matters that are less than critical.  Of course it is not my wish to overburden you.  To that end, you will each be assigned a seventh year student as an assistant.  These assistants should lighten your workload somewhat by taking over some of the more mundane tasks of teaching, freeing you to supervise our newest staff."

"Headmaster," said Lupin, "am I to be included in this…project?  I have, after all, taught at Hogwarts before."

"I'm afraid so, Remus.  As I said, the Ministry is quite insistent, and I feel that it is not worth a fight.  But I'm sure your supervising professor will keep your experience in mind."

"And who shall be supervising whom?" asked McGonagall.

"Professor Sprout, I believe it is obvious that you will be working with Miss du Bois.  She is here, after all, as your assistant."

"Of course, Albus," Sprout replied.  "We would be working closely in any event.  So no student assistant will be required—unless a student is eager for the experience."

"Thank you.  I will bear that in mind," nodded Dumbledore.  "Professor Flitwick will be excused from this particular duty.  He has, as you might have heard, other business to attend to this year which will require him to be away from Hogwarts frequently."

Flitwick nodded with relief but Annwyd's heart sank.  It had been obvious that Sprout would be paired with du Bois, which had left her hoping desperately for Flitwick.  _McGonagall or Snape_.  _Good gods_.  

"Minerva, I would like you to work with Remus.  And Severus, that will leave you in charge of Annwyd.  Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.  And now, I believe it is time for lunch."


	3. Chapter 3

****

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**Chapter 3**

"Annwyd," said Dumbledore as they exited the staff room, "perhaps you would not mind dining with me in my office rather than having lunch in the Great Hall.  There are some matters we need to discuss."

"Yes, Headmaster.  That would be fine."

Dumbledore beckoned Snape.  "Severus, perhaps you should join us as well.  Since you will be overseeing Miss Gwir's work, these issues will be of interest to you as well."

Snape nodded curtly and followed without a word.  Annwyd felt her appetite departing.  A private lunch with Dumbledore might be a pleasant alternative to a meal in the Great Hall.  She was not at all certain that the same could be said for a private lunch that included the Potions Master.

As they reached the end of the corridor and rounded the corner, they were almost bowled over by a running house elf.  The little creature jumped back, bowing and squeaking apologies.

"It's quite all right, Lolly," Dumbledore reassured her.  "Is there a reason for this haste?"

"Yes, sir, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the creature, her pointed ears trembling with excitement.  "I's supposed to give you this message—right away, sir!—urgent!"  She held up a folded piece of parchment.

Dumbledore unfolded the note, read it, and slipped it into a pocket.  "Thank you, Lolly."  As the elf looked wound up to depart at the same frantic pace, the old wizard added mildly, "Less haste will be required for your return."

The elf bowed and walked away with comically slow and measured steps.

"Well," Dumbledore turned to Annwyd and Snape, "it seems that a small matter demands my attention.  I will require the use of my office to dispense with this task, so perhaps we could have our luncheon brought to Miss Gwir's quarters.  I will join the two of you there shortly."

The headmaster departed, leaving Annwyd and Snape in the corridor.  

"Uh, my rooms are just off the main entryway," offered Annwyd.

He apparently didn't notice the implied question.  "I am aware of that.  Proceed."

She stole a glance at each of the three options, then picked the one that seemed most likely.  Snape gave a small snort of disgust.  "Unless the castle has moved more than is its usual wont, you will not reach your rooms by way of Gryffindor Tower."

Since Snape was still not offering any advice, Annwyd considered the two remaining options.  But by then he had apparently lost patience.  "Follow," he snapped, and took the corridor down which Lolly had departed.  Annwyd trailed after him, feeling less appetite than ever.

~*~

Annwyd and Snape finished the meal as they had started it—largely unimpeded by conversation.  Dumbledore had still not arrived.

Alone with the Potions Master, she was once again aware of that cold sense of _presence, _a presence that remained strangely detached from the energy of the room.  Given a sufficient exertion of will, she knew that she could influence the energy locked behind that facade—she had managed it in the past—but even then there had been an odd sensation of working in the dark.  With most people, she could easily feel the subtle energies responding to the patterns she imposed.  With Snape, she could only tell that any effect had been achieved by reading the more mundane physical signs.  Far from intruding on her own keen awareness, as the average person was wont to do, the Potions Master presented only a barrier.

She remembered the moment in the faculty meeting when Dumbledore had announced the new duties to be imposed on the senior staff.  For a few seconds, she was certain that a burst of anger had radiated from Snape.  She could recall similar happenings from his classes.  _So something gets through, now and again_, she thought.    

The silence hung heavy and Annwyd fidgeted with the objects on the work table in front of her.  As she arranged and rearranged her silverware, she found herself studying Snape's profile.  His black hair looked slightly disheveled and slightly oily as always, but there was no grey interrupting its darkness.  There were small lines at the corners of his eyes and a slight crease to either side of his mouth, but she suspected those had more to do with constant scowling than age.  It was rather surprising to realize that twelve years ago when she was a student, Snape must have been quite young—younger perhaps than Annwyd was now.  At the time, such a thing had never occurred to her.  Even now, it was hard to reconcile the notion with her memories.  He had always been far too ill-tempered and, in a word, _frightening_ to be comfortably described by a word like _youthful_, regardless of what his age had actually been.  She tried to imagine Snape at twelve or fourteen and decided that he probably hadn't been youthful even then.    

Her eyes drifted down to his hand, resting on the table.  Like his face, his hands were very pale, and there was something…precise…about the shape of his long fingers.  _Scholarly hands_, she thought to herself, apropos of nothing.  

Unlike herself, Snape had mastered the art of remaining perfectly still.  No idle drumming of the fingertips, no mindless toying with the napkin.  Her eyes returned to his face and she noted that his features were as immobile as his hands; even his eyes were motionless, his gaze steady and fixed, though not, as far as she could tell, on anything in particular.  She was almost startled when he blinked.  

"Instructor Gwir," he said abruptly, still without turning or moving his eyes, "based on this rather prolonged scrutiny, I can only suspect that I am being added to your repertoire."  Now he did turn his head to face her, and the expression in his dark eyes was hard.  "Let me assure you that one Professor Snape at Hogwarts is quite sufficient.  I am certain that my students would agree."  The eyes narrowed slightly and the vertical creases around his mouth deepened.  "I would be displeased—I would be most _thoroughly_ displeased—if I were to encounter, or hear about, a duplicate Potions Master.  Is that clear?"

"Yes, Professor," Annwyd said, flushing.  "I didn't mean…I did not intend…anything like that.  It's just a habit…studying people's faces."

He continued to stare at her.

"I do use them sometimes, of course," she admitted, "but I wasn't planning…."  She trailed off.  "I won't do that, I promise."

He nodded and the stare released her.  "Based on her reaction this morning, I would venture to say that Professor McGonagall was also less than delighted with the idea."

She allowed herself a grim half-smile.  "No, _delighted_ wouldn't have been my interpretation.  I suppose it was a rather foolish impulse."

Snape did not bother to confirm or deny her self-assessment and the room lapsed back into silence.  

"Do you know," ventured Annwyd after a moment, "in what way you're supposed to be …overseeing my work?"

"Of that," said Snape, quirking an eyebrow, "I remain as ignorant as yourself.  No doubt Dumbledore will enlighten us.  Should he ever choose to arrive."

As if on cue, there was a brisk knock on the door and a second later the headmaster entered.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting," Dumbledore said cordially.  "I see you've already had your lunch.  Excellent.  Perhaps then we can move to the sitting room."

"We could stay here if you'd like to eat something," offered Annwyd.

"Thank you, my dear, but I've managed a snack while dealing with my visitor."

He ushered them into the next room and into the two armchairs, then conjured a third chair for himself.

"I trust that the two of you have used this time to become better acquainted," said Dumbledore.  He pretended not to notice when neither responded.  "Well then, let us turn to business."  His expression turned slightly more serious.  "In discussing your role at Hogwarts, Instructor Gwir, there are a few points to be made that might be slightly…distasteful to you…though not excessively so, I hope.  Nonetheless, I thought such matters would be more comfortably discussed in private."

"Thank you, sir," said Annwyd.  To herself she added, _they would be more comfortably discussed minus Professor Snape.   _She decided to focus on the older wizard and ignore the Potions Master as much as possible.

"First," said the headmaster, "some of the other teachers have expressed concerns about the skills your students will learn.  It would not do to have students impersonating teachers.  Or handing in illusory assignments."

The latter caused Annwyd to blush, but she waited for Dumbledore to continue.

"It is my hope, then, that you will be able to show us—the faculty, that it—the methods by which glamours can be detected.  We will need to be forearmed against possible misuse of these skills.  Students being students, mischief will no doubt be done.  But we hope to keep the chaos to a minimum."

"Well, sir, on that issue there is good news and bad news—"

"By all means, let us have the bad news first then," said Dumbledore.  "I always prefer to end on a cheerful note."

"The bad news is that there is no easy way to detect glamours, especially for those who have no training in Glamour Casting themselves.  An experienced caster learns to be very aware of the subtle energies, and therefore he can usually sense a disruption or abnormality.  But even an experienced caster can be fooled if the glamour is good, especially if he is tired or distracted.  Witches or wizards untrained in glamours are rarely able to notice them at all.  Even once they are pointed out, they can be very difficult to detect."

"Are there wards or magical objects which can aid in their detection?" asked Snape.

"If there are, I have never heard of them."

"I confess I had hoped for a different answer," said Dumbledore.  "But perhaps the good news will lend us encouragement."

"Well, the good news, I suppose, is that the problem will not present itself immediately.  Glamour Casting is not quickly learned."

"You seemed rather adept at an early age," said Dumbledore mildly.  She tried not to read this as a reproach.

"My grandfather taught me to cast from the time I could talk," said Annwyd.  "My father died just before I was born, and Aunt Hafina, father's sister, wanted nothing to do with Glamours.  She thinks of them as quite…disreputable.  Grandfather was determined to pass his knowledge on to someone in the family, and it turned out that I was his only option.  He wasted no time in starting my education.  I think he was afraid he might die before he had a chance to complete my lessons."  She fought down a sudden lump in her throat.  Though his death had occurred several months ago, it was still hard to speak of him.  She had carefully avoided the subject in her thoughts for the past few days….

"The students here," she continued in a carefully unemotional tone, "have no such training, I would imagine."

"Occasionally," said Dumbledore with a chuckle, eyeing Annwyd, "such a student _has_ come along.  But, in general, lack of training is a safe assumption."

"If all goes well, then, they _may_ be able to produce colors and simple patterns by the end of the term.  There is a great deal of preliminary work to be done before even simple glamours can be achieved.  You don't have to worry about illusory dragons roaming the corridors anytime soon."

"And when the students become more advanced?" said Snape.

"By that time," said Annwyd, "we may hope that a solution will present itself.  Perhaps there are detection wards or objects of which I am unaware.  If nothing else, I would be happy to instruct the faculty as well, if they wish to learn.  They would eventually learn to detect most sorts of illusions."

Dumbledore nodded.  "I judge that to be sufficient for the moment."  He paused for a moment to stroke his silvery beard.  "The second issue, Annwyd, concerns your own use of these arts.  I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that many wizards are still distrustful of Glamours."

"I am only too well aware of that," sighed Annwyd.  _Deceits_, spoken in McGonagall's voice, echoed in her mind with the force of a curse.    

"There are certain concerns, both here and in the Ministry," Dumbledore said carefully.  "It is my hope that, in time, the prevailing attitude will grow more tolerant.  At the moment however…I must extract a promise from you as a condition of your employment."  He waited to catch her eye before continuing.  "You may of course practice your arts in private, give demonstrations in the course of instruction, and, should the need arise, use your talents in self-defense.  Beyond that, I must ask you to promise that you will not perform Glamour Castings at Hogwarts."

Annwyd was stunned.  She had expected that he would ask her to limit her casting in some way.  She had been quite prepared to promise not to teach the controversial Glamours of touch.  She would have been happy to swear off casting likenesses of other faculty members.  But to forswear the use of her arts all together?  That idea had never crossed her mind.

"Headmaster, I…I did not expect anything so…stringent."

"I understand.  I would not ask if it wasn't necessary.  But, given the current state of affairs, I am afraid I can only allow you to remain here if you are willing to make such a promise."

"I can't give you an answer…just now…not without a chance to think it over."

"Will tomorrow morning give you sufficient time?"

She nodded with sudden weariness.  _Must everything always be so difficult?_

"In the event that you do decide to join us, as I hope you will, there is another important matter to be discussed."  When she made no comment, Dumbledore continued.  "It will be helpful for us to have an understanding—and by 'us' I refer to myself and Severus—of the extent of your more…traditional magical skills."

Annwyd's posture stiffened.  "I'm not sure I see the relevance, Headmaster.  No doubt your other instructors—excuse me, _professors_—teach those skills admirably well."

"They do indeed.  That is not why I ask."  It was Dumbledore's turn to sigh wearily.  "Hogwarts is as well-warded as any place in Britain.  We try to take no risks with our students' safety.  Sadly, however, the last three years have proved that even our best efforts are sometimes inadequate…."

"I can assure you," Annwyd said sharply, now feeling thoroughly defensive, "that my wand-casting talents are a threat to no one."

"You misunderstand me," said Dumbledore gently.  "It is _your_ safety I am presently concerned with.  There are certain skills most of us take for granted.  Your specialties, of course, lie elsewhere.  If there is any pertinent…lack…in your knowledge, I would endeavor to provide some compensation.  Either by providing appropriate tutoring or by some other means."

Annwyd was feeling uncomfortably close to tears.  A moment ago she was being treated as a dangerous wielder of disreputable powers, and now she was seen as a stupid, helpless child.  Only a glance at Snape, who sat watching her impassively, allowed her to choke back a cry of frustration.  She had a feeling that, at best, the Potions Master would greet a crack in her composure with impatience, and at worst, he would give her a look of smug satisfaction.  _I'll be damned if I'll provide that opportunity_, she thought.

"What exactly do you want to know, Professor Dumbledore?" asked Annwyd, pushing down tearfulness in favor of annoyance and resignation.

"How are your skills with wards of protection?"

"About the level of the average first or second year student, I guess."

"Charms?"

"I can summon small objects from a short distance.  I can do simple silencing charms or binding charms.  Sometimes.  And I possess a moderate skill with healing charms."

"Can you perform disarming spells? stunning spells? shield spells?"

"Unreliably."

"Hexes and curses?"

"I haven't tried in years."

"Can you conjure objects?"

"No."

"Apparate?"

"No."

"What sort of competence do you have with Potions and Transfigurations?"

Annwyd sighed.  Though she tried to resist the impulse, she couldn't keep from casting a sidelong glance at Professor Snape.  "My skills with Potions are minimal.  First-year level perhaps.  Transfiguration…."  She shook her head.

Snape raised an eyebrow.  "Instructor, you were at Hogwarts for three years prior to your…departure…were you not?  Surely you must have learned something during that time.  I, for one, do not give students passing grades from kindness."

Annwyd and Dumbledore exchanged looks.

"As I recall, Severus, you were temporarily absent from the school at the time of Annwyd's departure.  And rather busy upon your return.  Possibly the details of the case escaped you."

"I was under the impression," replied Snape, "that Miss Gwir was dismissed for cheating on final exams through the use of Glamours.  I was told as much by Minerva.  Since Miss Gwir was not a Slytherin, nor a notable student of Potions, I did not inquire after further details."

"I see," said Dumbledore.  He seemed to be searching for a tactful explanation when Annwyd interrupted.

"Perhaps you would lend me your wand for a moment, Professor.  Mine is in the other room."

Though the words had been addressed to Snape, it was Dumbledore who handed over his wand.  Annwyd clasped it firmly with her right hand.  Her left hand was draped over the arm of the chair.  "I will demonstrate my Transfiguration skills," she said bitterly.

She pointed the wand at various objects in the room.  A book turned into a toy sailboat.  The rug in front of the hearth became a rectangular plot of daisies.  The bookcase became a grandfather clock and bonged twice.  Finally, her silver trinket box, resting on the table next to Snape, turned into a field mouse, sat up on its hind legs, and wriggled its nose in Dumbledore's direction.

"Well?" said Snape.

"Perhaps you would care to pick up the mouse.  He doesn't bite."

Snape scooped up the small rodent.  "Ah, I see."  He gazed down at the little creature squirming in his palm.  "A mouse that feels remarkably like a trinket box."  

"Professor McGonagall noticed that too.  Generally, she only inspected our work visually.  But on that particular final exam, I apparently made the mouse so _endearing_ that she suddenly felt inspired to pick it up.  At the time, there was nothing I could do."  Annwyd paused and took a deep breath.  "I would do somewhat better now, I think."

Snape suddenly startled and his eyes widened.  The cool, metal weight in his hand had abruptly become warm, furry, and restless.  Tiny toenails pressed against his skin.

Annwyd returned the wand to Dumbledore and gave the air a slice with her right hand.  All the objects appeared as they had before.

"I have never transfigured an object in my life.  Not that I didn't try."

Snape set the trinket box back on the table and gave Annwyd a long, appraising stare.  "You are not, apparently, one of the Glamour Casters who shies away from tactile illusions because of their possible Dark Arts connections."

"A tactile mouse is not an Unforgivable Curse, Professor."

"Indeed," said Snape with an odd expression.

Annwyd glanced away from the Potions Master to find Dumbledore regarding her steadily.  She could not be sure if the glint in his eyes was a sign of mild reproach or wry amusement.  "I have not made any promises _yet_, Headmaster," she said, half in apology, half in defiance.

"No, Annwyd, though I do hope you will.  I suspect you would be an…interesting addition to our faculty."

"Miss Gwir," interposed Snape in a slightly chillier voice than before.  "Am I to assume that something similar happened in the Potions classroom?"

"Professor Dumbledore," said Annwyd, apparently intent on ignoring the question, "could I trouble you to conjure a glass of water for me?"

"Certainly."  The glass appeared and he handed it to Annwyd.

She took a long drink.  "Thank you, Headmaster.  I seem to recall, Professor Snape, an exam in which we were tested on shrinking potions.  If I remember correctly, the potion was a revolting shade of green and smelled horrible.  Rather like this."  With only a slight furrowing of her brows to betray concentrated effort, she held up the glass, which was now smoking slightly.  An acrid odor wafted up from the thick green liquid.

"Yes," said Snape, in a very low and decidedly cold voice.  "Very much like that.  And you needn't bother to demonstrate the effects of your _potion_ by shrinking—excuse me, _appearing_ to shrink yourself.  You may assume that I have now grasped the point."

"If it is any consolation, Professor Snape, I always found you more resistant to Glamours than the other teachers."

"How interesting," he said in a tone that managed to convey a total lack of interest.

Annwyd chose to ignore the tone.  "Yes, I thought it was.  If you care to know, I only glamoured my potions on the exams.  It required an unusually high degree of focus."

"And on the other practical assignments?" 

"You simply never looked at my work."

Dumbledore looked mildly astonished.  Snape started to protest but she cut him short.

"Whenever you came prowling about the room in search of mistakes, I made myself extremely inconspicuous.  _That_ is a glamour that works on almost everyone.  Even experienced casters find it difficult to detect.  Probably because it demands so little.  Only that your attention slide by in search of a more…engaging target."

She wondered if she had pushed things too far.  _Prowling about_ was, in retrospect, a less-than-diplomatic choice of words.  But Snape only twisted his mouth slightly and nodded.

Feeling emboldened by this, and propelled by an overabundance of taut nerves, Annwyd pushed forward to add a final comment.  "I would not be surprised, Professor, if your lack of curiosity regarding my expulsion had its source in the fact that you found it hard to remember me."

He crossed his arms and gave a small snort, but the quickly concealed widening of his eyes told Annwyd she'd indeed hit the mark.

She suddenly couldn't resist the urge to laugh. She tried to stifle the giggles bubbling up from her chest, but they stubbornly refused to be stifled.  She covered her mouth with her hands and laughed till her eyes watered.  _Good gods_, said a small voice, _I'm becoming hysterical_.  Finally, the giggling fit passed.  She wiped her wet face with the sleeve of her robe.

"I apologize, Professor.  Truly I'm laughing mostly at myself.  I was so intimidated after the first few Potions lessons that I never went near the dungeons again without my trusty _raincoat_ and _old_ _shoe_."

"Old shoe?" said Dumbledore in perplexity.

"Shielding glamours.  The _raincoat_ is a general purpose energy-deflector.  The _old shoe_ makes whatever it is cast on appear so completely comfortable, unremarkable, and easy to take for granted that it is almost impossible to question it."  One last giggle trickled out.

"I am certainly _gratified_ to see," Snape said nastily, "that you have quite outgrown your feelings of intimidation."

"Not really, Professor, but I am extremely tired, confused, far from home, and far from certain that I will have a job tomorrow.  And I am occasionally inclined to fits of false bravado under stress."

"Not to mention a rather regrettable level of candor," added Snape.

"There are moments when candor is called for," said Dumbledore.  "But I think we have achieved enough of it for today.  Annwyd, I will leave you to think over your decision.  It is my hope that you will choose to remain at Hogwarts in spite of the constraints that will be required.  If you choose otherwise, there will be no ill will on my part.  Undoubtedly we will find other curriculum for your classes.  However," he said, fixing her with uncharacteristically serious blue eyes,  "as I said at the meeting, we are living in dark times.  We are in need of every trick at our disposal to fight Voldemort, and you seem to have a number of tricks to add to our repertoire."

Dumbledore rose from his chair, as did Snape.

"Severus, kindly see to it that Miss Gwir's rooms are properly warded before you leave.  Something keyed to her person would be best so that she will not need to use a spell to enter."

Snape nodded.

"Annwyd, let me know if there is anything you require.  Otherwise, you may use the remainder of the day to rest or amuse yourself as you wish.  And please come to my office tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore…Albus.  I truly do appreciate your kindness.  I will tell you in the morning what I've decided."

"How would you prefer the wards to be set?" Snape asked her when Dumbledore had gone.

Annwyd shrugged.  "However you think best."  Her brief spell of giddiness had receded.

He walked to the entrance in a swirl of black robes, Annwyd following.  She watched as he briefly inspected the chamber.  Then, withdrawing his wand, he traced a complex pattern around her door, muttering spells at several points in the design.  When he was satisfied with his work, he stepped aside.

"The wards are in place, Instructor, but they must be keyed to respond to you.  If you will place the palm of your hand against the door, here," he tapped the center of the wide oak panel, "I will set them to recognize and admit you."

She stepped forward until she was arm's length from the door and pressed the palm of her hand against the wood in the spot he had indicated.  

"It would be helpful if you could stand somewhat closer to the door."

Annwyd took a half-step forward, wondering why it mattered.

"Now kindly remain still until I have finished."  A second later she felt the warmth of his body just behind her as he laid one hand over hers.   He murmured another incantation and tapped the door with his wand.  A faint pattern of reddish lines flared against the wood.  For several seconds, the lines continued to glow, growing brighter and clearer.  The palm of his hand continued to press against the back of hers.  Then Snape murmured a final word and the glowing lines vanished.

The hand lifted from hers and he stepped away.

"That should provide adequate protection."

She turned to face him.  "Th--thank you," she stammered.  "I'm sure it will be fine."

There was a pause.  Snape returned the wand to his pocket.

"It would be easier for me to depart, Miss Gwir, if you were not standing directly in front of the door."

She flushed and moved aside quickly. 

As he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, she said impulsively to his back, "I'm sorry if I've offended you this afternoon, Professor.  If I have, it wasn't my intention."

It seemed that he would leave without replying, but then he stopped just outside the door.  He spoke without turning, still facing into the hall.  "In light of this afternoon's conversation, I somewhat regret that circumstances did not allow me to be present when you were expelled."

Coming at the end of a day that had already included too many strains, the rebuff was the proverbial last straw.  _I'll be damned if I make that promise.  It's not worth it._  

"Perhaps," she said in a glamoured voice full of scorn and ice, "it will compensate for the loss of that pleasure to know that I'll be leaving tomorrow morning.  And while I'm sure that you could have added many _gratifying_ comments to further support the case for my dismissal, be assured that Professor McGonagall said quite enough for both of you."

She heaved the door closed but he turned and caught it before it could slam shut.  "_If_ I had been present, Miss Gwir, I believe I would have argued that you should remain.  During the course of serving four years of extraordinarily well-earned detentions, you might have been able to teach us something of interest."  

And with that, he pulled the door closed.

~*~

Late that evening, Annwyd sat curled in one of the armchairs, staring moodily into the empty fireplace.  Two hours spent lolling in the huge claw-foot tub had calmed her nerves and left her wanting to sleep.  But there was a decision to be made by morning.

She traced a familiar pattern in the air and a grizzled old wizard in simple, rough clothing appeared in the empty armchair beside her.

"Annwyd, my little love, how are you?"  His voice was hoarse and graveled but filled with fondness.

"Hello, Grandfather."  Annwyd smiled at his familiar sun-browned face and sparkling eyes.  His leathery features crinkled merrily as he returned the smile.

"Nice room," he gestured at the deep patterned rug, the stone hearth, and the cases of leather-bound books.

"It is nice, isn't it?  And the bedroom's even nicer.  I think I could like living in these rooms."

"Are you going to stay then?"

"I don't know," she sighed.  "They want me to give up the Glamours…except in classes."

"That shouldn't be a surprise, girl.  You know how people feel."

"I don't know if I can do it, Grandfather."  She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.  Even with her eyes shut, she could feel the old man's comforting presence.  For the first time that day, she felt safe.  "Most of the tricks I could learn to do without.  But I don't think I can manage without the shields."

"Annwyd," he said tenderly, "you and I have the same strength—and weakness.  Sensing the energies comes easy to us, but blocking them out comes hard.  It's why I chose the country rather than the city, why I chose my own little corner of the earth and kept the wizarding world at a distance."

"I know, Grandfather.  And I miss it.  The cottage, the village, the woods….but I just couldn't stay there without you."

"It might have been a mistake to keep you there so long.  Might have been a mistake to keep myself there.  Sometimes the world involves us in its business whether we like it or not.  Hiding isn't always the answer."

She opened her eyes and regarded him.  "Do you mean…do you mean Lord Voldemort?"

The old man only shrugged.

"Do _you_ think I should stay?"

He shrugged again.  "Maybe we should do your lessons, rabbit."

She smiled.  "Which lessons should we work on?"

"Always best to begin at the beginning.  What are the proper uses of the Glamours?"

Her smile deepened.  The very first of the lessons, repeated endlessly.  "To create what is beautiful.  To remember what is gone.  To comfort those who are troubled.  To shield the weak from the cruel."

The old man nodded approval.  "And how must the Glamours never be used?"

"To harm those who mean no harm."

"Why?"

"Because it is evil."

"And…?"

"To trade illusions for wealth.  Because in that there is no honor.  To trade illusions for love.  Because in that there is no joy."

The wizard gave her another smile of approval.

"You will make the right decision, Annwyd."

The old man and the young woman sat together in comfortable silence.  It was a long time before she dropped the glamour.

~*~ 

Some hours later Annwyd startled awake and realized she'd been dozing in her chair.  She extinguished the lights and wandered sleepily into the bedroom.  After leaving her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor, she crawled under the covers, nestling down beneath the quilts.  

Laying on her side, she gazed out into the room's shadows.  She'd been dreaming something just before she woke, but now she couldn't remember what it was.  She yawned, and her left hand pushed a heavy lock of hair away from her forehead.  

After settling her hair more comfortably onto the pillow, her fingers traced the air softly, of their own volition it seemed.  

She was almost surprised when a tall figure appeared next to the bed, regarding her with black unreadable eyes.  Her breath caught as she looked up at the somber face above her, angular planes catching the shadows, skin pale in the darkness.  The figure stepped closer and lay a hand against the side of her face.  A flash of heat flowed from his palm to her cheek, radiating a wash of energy deep under the skin until her whole body filled with a dark glow.  

With a gasp, she disentangled her other hand from the covers and made a swift cut in the air.  The hand on her cheek and the dark eyes vanished.  She rolled over, shaken and feeling feverish.

_Why in seven hells did I do _that_?_

She forced a series of calm, even breaths.  _Because_, said a small voice, _it felt almost like that.  When he touched you.  When he was setting the wards on the door._

She had spent the evening carefully not remembering that moment.  If she had really felt that sudden flash of energy, it must have had something to do with the spell he was casting on the door.  Some kind of side effect.  Nothing more.

_ Then why, _the voice insisted_, did you feel that rush of heat a full second _before_ the incantation?_

She banished the voice.  She needed to go to sleep.  After all, she had a class to teach tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

****

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

****

****

**Chapter 4**

As Severus Snape strode across the Hogwarts grounds, leaving the yellow glow of the castle's many windows behind, he wondered where the next few minutes would find him.  He could make a few likely guesses, but there was no way of knowing with any certainty.  As soon as he cast the spell to Apparate, his destination would be out of his control.  It was not a notion he relished—he was not fond of things beyond his control—but in this case it didn't matter much.  

_Whom_ he was going to see vastly overwhelmed any concerns over _where_ the meeting took place.  And on such occasions as this, the location would not be the only factor beyond his control.  That was one of the night's few certainties.

The wind held the first chill of autumn and blew hard enough that his black cloak billowed and snapped behind him.  He did not mind the cold; it helped to keep his mind clear and sharp.  His simple, unadorned black clothing was sufficiently warm.  And if his face and hands were chilled by the night air, it was a pleasant counterpoint to the insistent fire burning his left arm.  

He resisted the urge to grasp his inner forearm with the other hand.  He knew from long experience that touching the Dark Mark—rubbing it, scratching it, applying ice, poultices, or balms—had no effect, none whatsoever.  The mark would continue to burn with increasing intensity until it was like a live coal pressed against the skin.  The only way to stop it was to answer its call.  The mark's creator did not like his summons to be ignored.

Snape reached a small grove of trees which marked the edge of the school grounds.  Once past the grove, the spells protecting Hogwarts would no longer prevent him from Apparating.  Then he would be whisked away to…somewhere.  And wherever that _somewhere_ happened to be, Voldemort would be waiting.  

 He swept past the dark trunks and wind-tossed branches and crossed beyond the range of the wards of protection.  On the other side of the trees, he paused for a moment, breathing deeply, bringing every nerve and muscle into awareness, preparing body and mind for the meeting ahead.  As always, before saying the spell, he pushed up his left sleeve and gazed down at the skull and serpent, clear and black on the pale skin between wrist and elbow.  The symbol that marked him forever as a Death Eater.  

He could not have said with certainty why he did this.  It was, nonetheless, a ritual.  He locked his eyes on the Dark Mark and focused his inward attention on its burning, gradually forcing every other thought and sensation from consciousness.  After a long moment of concentration, he was able to hold his mind fixed and steady.  There was nothing but this, no world beyond this single point of focus.  A skull and snake and fire against his skin.  

He allowed the arm to drop and his sleeve slid over the mark.  He raised his wand and spoke the words.  The wind and the trees vanished.

~*~

"Severus," said the high, cold voice.  "You have kept me waiting."

Snape said nothing.  Voldemort knew that it was impossible to Apparate directly from Hogwarts, and that sometimes discretion demanded a delay.  No excuse was needed, and none would be accepted in any case.

He knelt on the bare stone floor in the torch-lit chamber and bowed his head, waiting to be commanded.

"You may stand.  I would hear your report."

He rose from his knees and, with his peripheral vision, took in as much information about his surroundings as was possible.  The chamber was likely underground, part of a dungeon or a cellar.  He did not see any windows.  The air was stale and the walls were slightly damp.  He had not been here before, and from what he could make out, the room could be anywhere at all.  It was of course unthinkable to ask or show overt curiosity.  

He kept his center of vision firmly fixed on Voldemort's feet, glad that the Dark Lord seemed to prefer this posture of deference.  The feet, encased in ordinary, dusty black boots, were far more human and far less distracting than the slit-pupiled red eyes and the blunt reptilian features.

"Tell me, my Death Eater, what transpires at Hogwarts?"  

If he were not steeled against its effects, that shrill, artic voice would have made him shudder.  When he answered, he kept his own voice perfectly flat and neutral.

"The term begins as always.  Dumbledore attempts to rally his forces.  The Ministry, as expected, buries its head in the sand on all but the most insignificant matters."

"Dumbledore's pet werewolf has returned, I understand.  And there are new professors, are there not?"

"Remus Lupin has been re-hired as the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.  The Ministry opposes the appointment, but Dumbledore has used some sort of leverage to garner their agreement.  He will not speak of the exact arrangements made, but I suspect the Ministry fears public exposure of last year's"—he allowed a sneer to creep into his voice—"_unfortunate_ events." 

"Does Lupin suspect you?"

"He dislikes me.  That is to my advantage.  Dumbledore is willing to see antagonism between us, including my suspicions of him and his of me, as the results of that personal aversion.  Also, Lupin depends on me for the potions that control his transformations.  That may be of some use."

Voldemort began to pace the floor, circling Snape, who remained standing in place.  "The werewolf does not overly concern me," said Voldemort.  "Even with the aid of Sirius Black, who is the stronger of the two, he could not stop my most pathetic servant."  The Dark Lord laughed, a sound like metal shrieking against ice.  "The two of them had Wormtail in their possession, disarmed and helpless, and were too _noble_—_too_ _weak_—to end his wretched life."  

His circling brought Voldemort back into Snape's field of vision.  Though the Potions Master's eyes were still cast down, he caught the flick of Voldemort's dead-white, spidery fingers as he made a contemptuous gesture—casually brushing aside such disgusting weakness.

"There are two women also."  It was not a question.  Naturally, Lord Voldemort had more than a single source of information.  _But I am still useful_, thought Snape_.  I am closer to Dumbledore's plans than the others._

"The first is Clarice du Bois," said Snape in the same flat voice as before.  "Previously employed at Beauxbatons.  She is now Assistant Professor of Herbology at Hogwarts."

"Does she concern us?"

He shook his head.  "She is nothing."  Again, the slight sneer in the tone.  "A witch of mediocre talent and limited intellect.  She digs in the dirt in the greenhouse and is oblivious to the rest."

"And the other?"

"Annwyd Gwir.  She is…more interesting."

"Well?" said that cold, whipcrack voice.

"A Glamour Caster, raised by a country wizard.  She has talents that are not often seen now…not since the Glamours fell from favor years ago."

"And why does Dumbledore seek to revive the Glamours?  Is this another _noble_ pet project?  Does he hope to play savior to the poor practitioner of dishonored arts?  Is that his motive, hmmm?"  The high-pitched, icy voice continued circling…circling…the boots tapping out a slow rhythm against the stone.  "The same reason that he befriends the wretched, outcast werewolf?  The same reason he redeems you, the miserable, turncoat Death Eater? Is that what he plays at, _Severus_?"

In spite of his rigidly held control, Snape flinched at the pure venom injected into the syllables of his name.  He recovered himself quickly though.  "No doubt that is part of it," he said coolly.  "The old fool always dashes to play the hero."

"Yes," drawled Voldemort, in a slightly more human pitch.  The circling had paused and the voice came from behind Snape's shoulder.  "And it is to our advantage, is it not, that the _old fool_ has such a passion for collecting garbage.  If the _old fool_ did not endeavor to make his own ridiculous pedestal look higher by surrounding himself with the dregs of the magical world, then he would certainly have no use for _you_.  And therefore neither would I."

This time Snape was prepared for the dose of venom and his posture remained impassive, his eyes still fixed on the patch of floor where Voldemort's boots had been.  All this was simply part of the report, little cruelties that the Dark Lord enjoyed.

"Anything else?" hissed the voice, now close beside his ear.

"No doubt," said Snape levelly, refusing to wince away from Voldemort's dangerous proximity, "in addition to indulging his taste for…befriending the friendless…he thinks to use the woman's talents to aid his fight against us."

"Come now," the voice almost whispered, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to raise.  "Is Albus at such loose ends that he thinks to overwhelm me with parlor tricks?"

 "Her arts are more…advanced than you might imagine.  She appears to have learned the old skills, handed down from the time before the Glamours were banned.  They are rather more effective than the parlor magic which these days masquerades as Glamour Casting."   

"Is she a threat to us then, this Glamour Caster?"

Snape considered carefully before answering.  Much could depend on the card he chose to play.  "She has skills that could lend an advantage to the side that owned them.  But she is weak.  Unsure of herself.  Afraid of her own power.  And she suffers from the disdain her arts are accorded.  Though Dumbledore attempts to enlist her loyalties, she sees herself as a leaf in the wind, alone and without allies."  

"Yes," sighed Voldemort, with something that might have been pleasure, "yes, I see."  He circled back to his position in front of Snape.  "Look at me, my servant," he  hissed softly.

Snape raised his head and met the slitted crimson eyes.  He held his gaze steady, his face blank.

"A man can be cut with a glass knife, Severus.  The blade may be brittle but still sharp.  Do you understand me?"

"I believe I do, my Lord."

Voldemort's wand was in his hand.  His red eyes glittered in the torchlight.  

"You will put this knife in my hand or break the blade."

Severus Snape bowed his head.

"As you command, my Lord."

~*~

The instant the Dark Lord had Disapparated, a loud chime echoed through the chamber.  It sounded remarkably like an elegant doorbell, incongruous as that sound was in the bare stone cell.  Snape turned to survey the room and his eyes fastened on a wooden door, unseen until now since it had been directly behind him.  

As he grasped his wand and approached the door, it opened.  Brighter light spilled into the room, and low voices drifted in from somewhere beyond the walls.  A figure was silhouetted against that brighter light, difficult to see in the dimness of the flickering torches.  Snape recognized the voice though, when the figure addressed him.

"Severus," said the man in tones heavy and slurred.  "I see that Lord Voldemort did not keep you all night after all."  The figure made a little bow.  "Please do join us."

_Mulciber_.

And as Snape followed the man out of the room into a low-ceilinged hallway, other voices also became distinguishable.  _Travers_.  _Nott_.  _Malfoy_.

Several paces down the hall was another open door, which Mulciber now ushered him through.

They entered another chamber, much larger than the one he had just left.  It was constructed of the same rough stones, but a rich, intricate Persian rug dominated the floor and the graceful chairs and sofas were covered in dark, shimmering silk brocades.  Tables of delicate inlaid rosewood were topped with gilt candlesticks, expensive trinkets, and crystal glasses of whiskey.  The smell of cigar smoke lingered in the air.  All rather overdone and tasteless, in Snape's opinion.    

He was almost certain the room belonged to Mulciber.  The upper chambers of the Mulciber estate were furnished in massive gothic grotesqueries in black walnut, decorated with iron sconces and medieval weaponry, and  presided over by stone gargoyles and carved ebony monstrosities.  _How typical of Mulciber, _Snape reflected_.  His drawing room looks like a dungeon and his dungeon looks like a brothel_.  

"Ah, our esteemed Potions Master," said a measured, insolent voice.  "So glad you could make it."

"Good evening, Lucius."

Malfoy was impeccably dressed as always, his clothes perfectly tailored of silver-embroidered black cloth, his legs encased in high black boots of supple leather.  His pale blonde hair was bright in the glow of many candles as he lounged on one of the sofas, and the boots, propped on a footstool, gave off a rich, muted gleam.  The impression of a brothel was certainly not dispelled by the fact that a shirtless boy of about fourteen reclined on the sofa, his head nestled against Malfoy's chest.  One of Malfoy's hands absently toyed with the boy's hair.

Snape seated himself in one of the overly padded chairs and casually took stock of his fellow Death Eaters.

Travers and Nott seemed to be imitating Malfoy's dress and manner, though with less impressive results.  Parkinson and Macnair were less ostentatious in their simple dress robes, though they also tried to affect airs of aristocratic languor, a posture which sat poorly on Macnair's stocky body and coarse features.  Crabbe and Goyle didn't even attempt to look like anything but the guard dogs they essentially were.

Mulciber, who was now approaching to hand him a glass of whiskey, was outfitted in accordance with his normal tastes: close-fitting black pants over well-muscled legs, a full-sleeved crimson shirt open at the neck, and a black beard of medium length trimmed to a point.  A ruby-studded earring added the final touch.  He looked, to Snape's eyes, like a pirate in a theatre production.  He was clearly very drunk but still steady on his feet.  

Snape accepted the proffered whiskey with a nod and took a sip.  It was, unsurprisingly, excellent.

His eyes now took in the room's _other_ occupants.  He had already noted the glassy-eyed boy next to Malfoy.  He saw now that the boy's lower lip was puffy and swollen, giving a pouty expression to the otherwise blank countenance, and there was a trickle of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.  Since there was no evidence of bruising on his face, it was probably a bite.  And indeed there were two clear imprints of teeth on the boy's neck, one near the base of the throat, the other just above his collar bone..

On the far side of the room, a blonde girl lay in the corner like a discarded rag doll.  Her legs were very white under a pair of fishnet stockings.  A leopard-print slip was tangled around her waist, clearly revealing a series of red welts and purplish bruises painted across her slender hips and thighs.  He wondered for a moment if she was dead, but then saw that her chest rose and fell slightly with shallow breaths.  Just exhausted then.  Another woman, this one naked, black-haired, and voluptuous, was kneeling by the side of Travers' chair.

"Muggles?" asked Snape, gesturing at the boy and the young women.

"Of course," said Mulciber, returning to his own seat.  "They are a nuisance in general, no doubt, but they can be quite lovely…and amusing…in their youth." 

"We had a few more playthings earlier in the evening," said Malfoy lazily, stroking the boy's neck, "but I fear they overstayed their usefulness.  You should try to arrive more promptly in the future."

"Circumstances are not always as we could wish," said Snape, rolling the amber liquid in his glass and matching Lucius Malfoy's parlor-tone.  "I could scarcely dash out of the headmaster's office without a suitable explanation.  And pleading that I must depart abruptly in order to enjoy…fresh toys…with my fellow Death Eaters would hardly bolster my position as confidant."

"Of course, Severus, we all sympathize with the demands of your charade," drawled Malfoy, though he sounded more amused than sympathetic.

"Never fear, though," said Mulciber, "this one has a little entertainment left in her."

He fixed the brunette with a stare of concentration, and she rose from her position at Travers' side.  The woman crossed the room with slow, sensuous steps and sank to her knees beside Snape's chair.  A heavy, musky scent rose from her body.  She rubbed against his legs like a cat, brushing her face and her long hair against his knees and thighs.  

Snape rested a hand on the top of her head, her hair fine and silky under his palm.  He stroked a finger down her face and felt her tremble in response, then he cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face up towards his.  

Her full lips were parted in an expression of desire, and her body pressed closer against his legs.  But there were dark circles under her eyes and lines at the edges, lines that didn't belong on a face so young.  There was pallor underneath her dusky complexion, and her skin was feverish and trembling, partly the result of relentless desire, partly of nerves strained beyond their limit.  And behind the heat of lust that glazed her dark eyes, he could see, far back in their depths, a remnant of awareness, and of terror.  

The signs told the story all too clearly—the Imperius Curse applied too heavily and too long to a mind that could neither comprehend nor resist it.

Her will, held in the grip of the curse, was open to command, and Snape looked into her eyes for a long moment.  _Sleep, _he instructed gently but inexorably, pushing the command firmly into the farthest depths of her mind where that last scrap of awareness clung to life_.  Let go of the light.  No matter what happens, sleep_.  

The lines around her eyes smoothed and her mouth went slack.  She caressed her cheek against his thigh one final time, then settled her head in his lap and closed her eyes.

"Alas," he said, his voice conveying mild disappointment, "it seems I have indeed arrived too late."

If he judged her condition rightly, then nothing—not the strongest Enervation Charm, not even _Crucio_—would bring her back to consciousness.  Ever again.  She would not have left Mulciber's house alive in any case—there was nothing he could do about that—but whatever happened now would be veiled in darkness.

Letting one hand play idly with the girl's silky hair, he settled back in the opulently cushioned armchair and made witty conversation with his companions.

~*~

It was very late when Snape returned to Hogwarts.  He trudged across the grounds with a firm step in spite of his weariness, staving off exhaustion until he was safely enclosed in the castle walls.  Once he was inside the building, a little of the rigid control slipped from his muscles, leaving him feeling drained and shaky.  Finally, he descended the steps to the safety of the dungeons and entered his own well-warded rooms.  

As soon as he had closed the door and checked the spells of protection, he shrugged off his cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door.  He was glad to be home, glad to be amidst his own things.  His uncluttered, rather spartanly furnished quarters were a welcome relief after an evening spent lounging with enforced ease in Mulciber's overly sumptuous armchair.  

A spicy, slightly acrid smell of potions ingredients lingered in his chambers, and the familiar scents soothed his taut senses and tired mind.  The odors were not what most people would call entirely pleasant, but they were the smell of home and, more than that, a sharp, clean contrast to the remembered aromas of fine cigars, expensive whiskey, and sex.  

He removed his clothing laid it neatly on top of the chest of drawers.   No matter how tired he was, he could not abide slovenliness or clutter.  The strength of conscious will had its limits, and when those limits were reached, only discipline and habit remained to take up the slack.  He had ensured, with years of practice, that his own habits were well-ordered and rigorous.

Finally, he allowed himself to collapse across the bed, pulling a heavy blanket over his body.  He exhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to sleep.

Sleep, however, apparently had other more pressing engagements and did not intend to visit him immediately.  Instead, the night's events rolled across the backs of his eyelids.  

The meeting with Lord Voldemort replayed itself, and he allowed it to pass through his awareness, then firmly pushed it onto a mental shelf.  Some of the report had been routine and needed little consideration.  The Dark Lord's orders concerning Annwyd Gwir, on the other hand, would require careful scrutiny and analysis.  But that was best saved for another day.  There was, in any case, no particular hurry on that score.  Voldemort might be merciless and demanding, but he wasn't completely without reason.  He would realize that the task he had assigned was one that would require work and strategy.  Snape would be granted sufficient time to develop and implement a plan.

Next, his mind revisited the latter part of the evening.  Most of it, as usual, was rubbish.  The Death Eaters were predictably monotonous.  Every time they gathered to serve their Master's whims and indulge their own, the same conversations played out.  There were endless stale witticisms at the expense of the world outside their elite circle.  There were boasts, idle and real, subtle and coarse.  There was just the right mix of mutual flattery and mutual derision to keep the prevailing balance of power in place.  It had all grown, to him at least, infinitely tiresome.

_And this is the summit of dark knowledge and power_, he thought bitterly.  

He wondered if the others ever grasped how…commonplace it was.  For all their contempt towards Muggles, they were very much like them.  Not Voldemort, perhaps, but the others.  Whatever secrets they uncovered, whatever powers they commanded, they sought only the same things that the worst sort of Muggles bought with their wealth and influence—material luxury, social superiority, and a free rein to indulge in whatever debauchery suited their fancy.  

It was far more vulgar and ordinary than most people would have imagined.  Though actually, he corrected himself, he had no idea what most people imagined.  Perhaps it was only his own personal folly to have ever believed that the Death Eaters pursued a realm of intoxicating knowledge, a realm suffused with terrifying mysteries and dark splendors.  If that had ever been the goal of his fellow servants of the Dark Lord, it was a goal they had lost sight of long ago.

As he tried to let the evening's images fade into sleep, he found himself thinking of the dark-haired girl kneeling beside his chair, her large eyes gazing up at his.  She reminded him of another girl from many years ago…the same long raven-silk hair and warm complexion, the same wide eyes, full breasts, and rounded hips.

He was seventeen then and drunk on ambition.  He was an excellent student in every subject, and truly gifted in Potions.  And his gifts, it seemed, were appreciated by someone who shared his vision, by someone who looked for power beyond the obvious and mundane.  Voldemort, full of half-revealed secrets and whispered promises.  

At last there had been a chance to prove himself to someone who might understand and appreciate his goals, someone who applauded his ambitions.

Voldemort had needed a potion designed to his specifications—a pair of potions, actually—very difficult and complex, not to mention very, very illegal.  Potions that might well be impossible to create.  But perhaps Snape could consider the project, Voldemort had hinted, perhaps he would just think about it….

One of the older members of Voldemort's inner circle, a spy in the Ministry of Magic, was suddenly getting cold feet, neglecting to play his part.  Killing the man would be easy, of course, but then Voldemort would lose his informant.  Too much use of the Imperius Curse or the Cruciatus Curse would start to become noticeable after a while.  To retain his position in the Ministry and navigate its diplomatic complexities, the man had to have his wits about him, had to appear trustworthy and well.  He had no family to threaten, no misdeeds with which he could be blackmailed that wouldn't implicate the other Death Eaters as well.  Some other form of persuasion was required.

So Snape had invented a pair of potions to provide such persuasion.  The old Hogwarts Potions Master, knowing Snape's talents, gave him free access to the lab and its supplies, whatever he needed to conduct his student "experiments."  

After a few weeks of relentless work, he handed the results to Voldemort.  

The first potion was a clear liquid, easily slipped into the man's drink.  After a few hours, its effects began.  Anxiety.  Paranoia.  An oppressive sense of gloom.  An increase in all the most debilitating emotions, regardless of circumstance.  No matter what the man did, he could feel no spark of happiness, see no shred of hope.  For the first week, the man thought he was ill.  After two weeks, he was certain he was having a nervous breakdown.  By the end of the month, he was losing his will to live. 

And then a little dose of the second potion, generously provided by Voldemort.  Euphoria.  Intoxicated delight.  Unparalleled confidence.  All that had been lost returned, with interest.  And the most effective thing—the true elegance of the solution—was that the first potion did damage that was permanent while the antidote was only temporary.  The antidote, of course, was doled out by Voldemort in exchange for whatever information he wanted.  

The Dark Lord had been very pleased.

Snape had not expected any reward.  Acknowledgement of his achievement was reward enough.  He was seventeen years old and he had created something that had never even been contemplated before, something most wizards would have sworn wouldn't work.  He had taken on the challenge and succeeded.  The potions worked perfectly.  He was brilliant. He knew it and Voldemort knew it.  That was enough.

There _had_ been a reward though, hadn't there?.  

But that was not a memory to dwell on.

As he lay under his blankets staring up at the dark ceiling, Snape was aware of the coldness settling into his left arm.  The sensation was not unexpected.  The mark burned when Voldemort summoned his servants, and after the summons was answered, the burn faded gradually.  But it didn't fade to nothing—no, that would be too kind.  

When the fire was gone, the Dark Mark grew cold, unpleasantly cold, and skin around it felt slightly bruised.  The chill and the dull ache never went away, not until the Dark Lord called again.  

For thirteen years, when Voldemort was weak and in hiding, the mark had lain quiescent on his arm, but in all those years, the cold, bruised feeling had never diminished.  The feeling could be lived with, but it could never be pushed completely out of awareness.  

After so many years, Snape had grown accustomed to its presence.  Until Voldemort's return, however, he had forgotten how the transition from the fire to the dull ache always made him feel slightly sick.  

Tonight, however, the feeling seemed appropriate to his thoughts.  

The fire in his veins had lasted a long time, fueled by ambition and success and their rewards.    And when it had finally burned itself out, it was much like the fading of the mark, leaving him feeling sick and cold and bruised.  

_"You deserve some recreation, Severus, after your excellent work."  _

Voldemorte's voice had sounded human then, not the low serpent-hiss or metal-on-ice shriek it was today.  Perhaps it was understandable that he had once found that voice persuasive.  His stomach still clenched at the thought.

Even now, years later, he was angered by his own abysmal stupidity.  For all his ambitions, he had understood little about power.  Otherwise, he would have guessed that Voldemort never did anything for a single reason alone—his _rewards_ were never just that.  One of the facets of wielding power, Snape had come to realize, was that every action had hidden layers, and layers beneath the layers.  

That very first task should have given the game away, but he hadn't seen it.  He had been so engrossed in the _creation_ of the potions—in proving that he _could_ create them—that he had spared little thought for what the potions actually did.  Their effects had been a mere abstraction, a set of specifications that defined the challenge.  He had never known the name of the man who worked at the Ministry, and indeed he had never even wondered.

Still, it was so _obvious_.  There were two potions.  Two.  

The second one gave but the first one took away.  

And while the second was short-lived, the first lasted forever. 


	5. Chapter 5

****

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**Chapter 5**

The first month of the term had passed quickly.

After his meeting with Voldemort early in September, Snape had weighed his options and decided that the best immediate action regarding Annwyd Gwir was—for the moment—no action at all.  Give the girl a chance to settle in.  

During those first few days, she had been all taut nerves and fidgets.  Whenever anyone but Dumbledore gave her more than a passing glance, she startled and froze like a deer poised to flee.  He had, in fact, wondered whether she would make it through the first month at all.  He never remembered seeing a new teacher with such a bad case of the first-term jitters.

He supposed it made a certain amount of sense.  She had never taught before—had never been _employed_ before—and the initial reception by her fellow faculty members had been mixed at best.  He had also overheard her telling Lupin that she had spent her entire life, with the exception of her three years as a student, living with her grandfather on the outskirts of a rural village, population 100 if you counted the dogs.  

Nevertheless, her edginess was _irritating, _all the more so when Dumbledore had announced that her office was to be located next to Snape's—not merely next to, but _adjoining_, with a connecting door between.  Both Snape and Gwir had quickly pointed out that she had a perfectly good office attached to her own chambers.  

Annwyd was welcome to use that office for private work and study, Dumbledore agreed, but her formal office hours and all business involving interactions with students was to be conducted under Snape's supervision, and that meant that Snape needed to be near at hand.  

This was all part of the Ministry's new security requirements, and the sheer irrationality of it was enough to give him a headache.  If the Glamour Casting Instructor wished harm to one of the students, it didn't matter where her bloody office was.  She could simply glamour up a likeness of Dumbledore and take her victim wherever she wanted, if such was her intention.  What student was going to refuse an order from the headmaster?  And if she intended harm, was her promise that she wouldn't use the glamours outside the classroom going to stop her?  Clearly not.  It was typical Ministry thinking—all form and no sense.  

Snape had tried to protest that he had no extra space to spare—his office and the connecting rooms were all in use, thank you—but Dumbledore had simply conjured an extra chamber between Snape's office and supply room.  

Occasionally, magic was annoying.

At least Gwir was finally starting to adjust.  She had stopped jumping every time he walked through her office, which, inconveniently enough, he had to do whenever he needed supplies.  Students had started dropping in with questions, and her answers sounded comfortable and cheerful.  She had even taken to humming little tunes while grading essays.  Snape always found that grading essays made him want to claw his eyeballs out—or better yet, claw the offending student's eyeballs out—so he supposed the humming, though rather irritating in itself, was a sign that she was finding her job enjoyable.

And in fact, he had to admit, she taught well.  His other primary supervisory duty was to spend at least two hours per week during the first term observing Instructor Gwir in the classroom.  Snape couldn't help resenting these intrusions on his privacy and time, but he supposed the arrangement had its advantages.  He had his own reasons for wanting to observe the new instructor, and his duties provided ample opportunities to do so.  

Plus, there was a thoroughly delightful moment every week when he got to hand a stack of wretchedly written first year Potions essays over to his new assistant for grading.  The assistant, a seventh year Ravenclaw by the name of Timothy Tibble, was a competent if unimaginative student of Potions.  Tibble was possessed of no great brilliance, but he had a remarkable memory for facts, meticulously tidy habits, and enough fear of the Potions Master's temper to keep well out of his way.  Snape had painted such a dire picture of his probable response to insufficiently stringent grading that Tibble was, if anything, awarding the struggling first years even fewer points for their efforts than Snape would have.  All in all, it was quite satisfactory.   

As to Miss Gwir's classes, they were…interesting.  The first surprise had been the discovery that half the lecture material was delivered by the instructor's dead grandfather.  He was not a ghost like Professor Binns (and thank the gods for that—Snape could still remember the near catatonia he had endured in Binns' classes when he was a student).  No, not a ghost, but a glamoured likeness of the rustic old wizard that Annwyd seemed to produce and sustain with ease.

At first, the students had been taken aback by this additional "instructor," but they had quickly warmed up to the idea and now treated him very much as if he were actually present.  They would sometimes ask a question of Instructor Gwir and then consult the old man for a "second opinion."  Snape had given a derisive snort the first time Neville Longbottom had listened patiently to Annwyd's answer to his inquiry, then turned and said, perfectly seriously, _What do _you_ think, Mr. Gwir?  _Didn't the idiot boy understand that _she_ was making up the wizard's answers?  But it hadn't seemed quite so funny when Annwyd's glamoured grandfather had actually _provided_ a second opinion.  In fact, the elderly Mr. Gwir seemed to have his own views on a number of topics which were not entirely shared by his granddaughter.  

Mind and memory were funny things, he supposed.  _Either that or our new instructor is a little schizophrenic.  _

In the midst of these musings, Snape noted the time and realized that Instructor Gwir's afternoon class had just started.  Since he had not attended any of her sessions yet this week, he supposed he should go to this one.  After locking and warding his office, he headed upstairs towards the classrooms.

~*~

When Snape arrived, the class was already in progress.  As he settled himself in a seat at the back, Mr. Gwir, looking every bit as solid and real as anyone else in the room, was asking a question on the history of Glamour Casting, apparently from the reading assigned at the previous class.  Hermione Granger's hand shot into the air.

_Now there's a surprise_, thought Snape.  

"Ah, yes, our eager little gooseberry bush.  You have an answer for us?" said Mr. Gwir.

Snape's lip curled slightly.  He was quickly losing patience with the glamoured wizard's habit of referring to all students by plant and animal names, mundane and magical.  He had been greatly put off by this childish eccentricity when Mr. Gwir had first started calling on "chipmunks" and "puffapods".  

His opinion had improved somewhat upon the discovery that most of these…endearments, for lack of a better word…were not so cloyingly sweet.  It was rather amusing to hear a few of his least favorite Gryffindors addressed as "my little wood louse" or "the toadstool in the back row."  

Even this had lost its charm, however, once the students stopped being offended.  They now seemed to take it as a badge of honor to receive the most exotic or repulsive appellation.  At the end of the last class he had visited, he had overheard Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas arguing over who had gotten the day's best title—Finnigan with "green-horned sea slug" or Thomas with "three-toed tree sloth."  

Lavender Brown had at least been obliging enough to wrinkle up her nose at "shrivelfig." 

Snape's attention drifted back to the present discussion.  Hermione Granger seemed intent on reciting the entire fourth chapter of Bathilda Bagshott's _History of the Arcane Arts_ when Mr. Gwir chuckled and raised a hand to cut her off.

"Very good, bumblebee.  Most admirably, um, thorough."

"Five points for Gryffindor," said Annwyd.  She was sitting on the edge of the tall teachers' desk swinging her feet, while her grandfather—the _illusion_ of her grandfather, Snape amended—paced to and fro in front of the blackboard.  The elder Gwir never awarded or subtracted house points.

Granger's hand was waving in the air again.  Mr. Gwir seemed inclined to move on to another student, but the girl blurted out her question before he could call on someone else.

"Mr. Gwir, sir, I know what happened, but it doesn't make any _sense_.  Why would the Ministry outlaw Glamour Casting just because a Dark Wizard was running around using _Imperio_ on everyone?  That wasn't the Glamour Casters' fault, was it?"

"A fair question, muskrat.  Yes indeed, a fair question."  The old man scratched his grizzled grey beard.  "People were scared.  The Ministry's Aurors were failing to protect them.  The Ministry felt it had to do _something_.   And politics wasn't much different three hundred years ago than it is today.  If something can't be _fixed_, someone can at least be _blamed_.  So that's my answer, though it's not the one you'll find in Ms. Bagshott's book."

There was a pause while the class chewed on this.

"Sir," said Harry Potter, "you said the arts couldn't be learned from books.  So if the Glamours were outlawed and the Glamour Casters arrested, how did they manage to pass their knowledge on?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid," said the old man sadly, not even remembering to call Potter a garden snake or an earwig.  "That's why there are only a handful of Casters left today.  For years, the arts could only be taught in secret, and even so there was always risk involved.  The Ministry only lifted the ban on Casting years later because by then it was already a lost art.  Or so they thought.  But a few families, mine among them, had laid low through the bad years and handed the knowledge down as best they could."

"Thank you, Grandfather," said Annwyd, rising from the desk.  "And now, class, please take out your history essays so I can collect them.  We'll be moving on to a different topic for the second half of the lesson."

Snape watched with a critical eye as Annwyd moved among the desks, collecting scrolls.  _Yes_, he decided after a moment, _she seems to have finally landed on her feet_.  Her face was calm and smiling and the start-of-the-term worry lines had faded.   Her dark auburn hair hung in a smooth curtain down her back and her large green eyes were clear and warm.  She looked well.  She looked…almost pretty.  

He pushed the latter thought aside as irrelevant.  He needed to form an alliance with this woman, and she finally looked as if that topic could be broached without her bolting or breaking into tears.  It was time for Snape to make his first move.  Voldemort would not wait forever.

Annwyd placed the essays in a neat pile on her desk.  Her grandfather, Snape noted, had vanished.

"As you know," said the instructor to her students, "I have already demonstrated a range of the hand-cast glamours.  These are the sorts that most people know of—when they know of the glamours at all.  They are the ones used as tools, and the ones most useful for self-defense.  But there is a second type of casting as well."

"Voice-cast glamours?" asked Granger.

"Yes," Annwyd smiled, "that's right, Hermione."

"The book only mentions them once, on page 87, and it really doesn't say what they are."

"The voice-cast glamours were irrelevant to the ban, and since then, history has largely forgotten them.  They are not as practical as the hand-cast variety—less of a _tool_ and more of an _art_ in the strict sense of the word.  Long ago, the voice-casting masters were called the 'Faerie Bards', though they were human witches and wizards, not faeries."

"I've _heard_ of the Faerie Bards—" said Hermione with excitement.

"What _haven't_ you heard of?" muttered Ron Weasley.

"—but I always thought," she continued, ignoring Weasley, "that they were only a legend.  They really existed?"

"They really existed," confirmed Annwyd.  "Though much of their art has been lost.  For those of you who may _not_ have heard of them, the Bards were wizard lore-keepers, preserving magical stories, poems, and ballads.  They memorized hundreds of tales and verses, which they would sing or recite, accompanied by a Faerie Vision crafted for the song or story."

"Faerie Vision?" asked Weasley, curious in spite of himself.

"The visions were like…rather like paintings that went with the words, though they often included sounds and sensations as well as pictures.  The Bards sought to create a glamour that captured the world of the poem or song, weaving the glamour into the sound and rhythm as they recited."

Annwyd scanned the faces in front of her.  They apparently continued to show interest.

"It is a difficult art, more difficult than hand-casting.  It aims, as I said, to create an entire world, an entire landscape of experience, rather than merely adding or changing an object or two.  Because of that, the glamours are less substantial.  The audience must concentrate—close their eyes and _try_ to see the glamours—otherwise, they are very weak and pale.  But perhaps a demonstration will do better than more talk."

The students nodded.  Snape kept his expression neutral, but in fact he was rather interested as well.  Like Granger, though he wouldn't have admitted it, he had always thought the Bards and their Faerie Visions were myths.

"The piece I will recite is called 'The Hosting of the Sidhe'.  _Sidhe_ is the Gaelic Muggle term for the faerie people of Ireland.  This was written by an Irish poet named William Butler Yeats."

Hermione's hand rose once again.  "I thought—well, I studied Muggle literature before I came to Hogwarts, and I thought Yeats didn't live very long ago.  But you said the Faerie Bards were very old…."

"True," replied Annwyd.  "But most of the original songs and ballads have been forgotten over the years.  Only a few of the old tales survived.  My grandfather created the Vision for this poem himself.  He has a certain weakness for Muggle poets."

Granger nodded and no one else interrupted.

"Now, if you're ready, please close your eyes and take a deep breath.  Allow your mind to relax.  Focus on the sound of my voice."

As she spoke, her voice became slower and deeper, more melodious.  "Breathe," she said softly.  "Relax.  Look into the darkness behind your eyelids."  

At this point, she fixed her gaze on Snape, who was still watching her.  He scowled, then closed his eyes.  _Why not? _ He was curious.

"Good," she murmured.  "That's good…listen to your breath…look into the darkness…."

There was a pause and the room was filled only with the sound of quiet breathing.  Then she began to recite.

The host is riding from Knocknarea 

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; 

Caolte tossing his burning hair 

And Niamh calling _Away, come away: _

_Empty your heart of its mortal dream. _

_The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, _

_Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, _

_Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam, _

_Our arms are waving, our lips are apart; _

_And if any gaze on our rushing band, _

_We come between him and the deed of his hand, _

_We come between him and the hope of his heart._

The host is rushing 'twixt night and day, 

And where is there hope or deed as fair?  

Caolte tossing his burning hair, 

And Niamh calling _Away, come away. _

Snape let out a gasp.  With the sound of the first line, a landscape started forming in the darkness.  At first it was indistinct and hazy, like a faded painting seen through dark glass.  But as the words rolled on and on, the vision grew brighter and clearer, filling every corner of his mind.

First there was a wild country of dark woods and emerald hills, stone cairns and mist-filled hollows.  And then there were sounds as well, the thunder of hoof beats and the tinkle of unearthly, beautiful laughter.  

The faerie riders galloped out of the woods, their horses gleaming chestnut-gold, raven-black, and silver-white, heads high, nostrils flared, long manes tossing.  And the riders themselves—their fair faces burned like candle flames in a dark room and their hair streamed in the wind like liquid light.  

_Empty your heart of its mortal dream. _

A ribbon of music unfurled in his chest, achingly sad and unbearably poignant.  His heart seemed to strain against his ribcage, trying to follow that fleeting thread of sound….

_The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round _

He could feel the wind brushing against his face like a living thing, and the leaves danced in the air in a pattern the eye could not quite follow…but that pattern seemed to hold some intoxicating secret, the secret he had looked for all his life, if only he could grasp it….

_We come between him and the deed of his hand, _

_We come between him and the hope of his heart._

_Yes_, thought Snape, his mind lost to the vision.

And where is there hope or deed as fair?  

_Nowhere, _his heart whispered in answer.  There was nothing but this, nothing but this terrible beauty.

Caolte tossing his burning hair, 

And Niamh calling _Away, come away. _

Tears pricked the back of his eyelids unheeded.  His whole being was filled with a fierce and overwhelming longing, the yearning to follow those bright, unearthly riders, to answer their unanswerable call….

And then the voice stopped and the vision faded and he was sitting in the back row of a Hogwarts classroom, blinking at the backs of the students' heads and listening to them sniffling back tears.

Annwyd was standing at the front of the room as before, head bowed.  When she looked up, Snape saw—_thought_ he saw, just for an instant—an echo of that terrible brightness shining in her eyes.  Then it was gone, if it had really been there at all, and she merely looked pale and thoughtful and a little sad.

 "Well," she said, "I can't send you out of the class sniffling"—there were a few dismissive and embarrassed _hmmphs_ from the boys—"so perhaps we will end on something a bit more cheerful.  If you'll close your eyes and concentrate again, I will do a comic ballad for you.  It's called 'The Merry Old Thief.'"

Snape kept his eyes firmly open and focused on counting the stones in the wall.  He was not prepared to open his mind to another glamour—another _intrusion_—and he was, in any case, in no mood for a comic ballad.  

When Gwir had explained how voice-casting worked, he wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't…_that_.  Whatever Instructor Gwir had just done, it had been...overwhelming.  

_Dangerous_, said a voice in his mind.  

He steeled himself against whatever lingering effects he felt.  By the time the ballad of "The Merry Old Thief" had ended, he had counted the stones in the facing wall three times over—there were 88—and he was feeling like himself once again.  

Whatever weakness had momentarily seized him seemed to have passed.  He was able to produce a characteristic snort and grimace when Mr. Gwir popped up to take leave of the class in his typically annoying fashion ("Good-bye my little woodchucks!  Study hard, huckleberries!")  

Snape was on his feet and heading for the door when he remembered that he needed to talk to Annwyd.  The distractions of the last hour aside, there were things he must accomplish.  He strode to the front of the room.

"Instructor," he said rather stiffly, "there is something rather important I need to discuss with you.  Perhaps we could have lunch brought to my office, if that is convenient."  He knew that Instructor Gwir took her meals late in the day.

"Hello, Professor," she said.  "I'm afraid that I've planned to have lunch with Professor Lupin."  She paused.  "But perhaps you would like to join us?"

"Thank you, no."  A dose of the werewolf was the last thing he wanted at the moment.  Nor was he pleased by the thought of Lupin and Annwyd becoming friendly.  Whatever ideas Lupin might pass along regarding Snape, he doubted they would help to further his plans.  "Perhaps tomorrow your social life will be less demanding.  Good day."

He turned on his heel to leave.  Directly behind him, however, was Mr. Gwir.

"Ah, hello," said the old wizard.  "It's our black-crested—"

Snape raised a hand and cleared his throat loudly before he could find out what sort of black-crested creature he was meant to be.

"Mr. Gwir," he said, glaring into the old man's laughing eyes, "you may address me as 'Professor Snape.'"

No response.

"'Potions Master' is also acceptable, as is 'Sir.'.  But not 'speckled trout' and not 'chestnut tree'.  Not 'porcupine' or 'grindylow' or any other plant, bird, or beast.  Is that clear?"

"'Dandelion'?"  said the old man hopefully.

"Professor.  Severus.  Snape!" he growled through clenched teeth.  "Nothing else.  Nothing whatsoever."

"Not even 'sticky-footed mugwump'?  Not even—"

Snape whirled around to face Annwyd.  "Instructor Gwir, would you kindly inform _him_—"

It was only when he saw Annwyd suppressing a grin that he realized the true absurdity of the situation.  He was being baited into an argument about sticky-footed mugwumps by a wizard who didn't actually exist.  

He suddenly decided that maybe he had liked the instructor better when she was fidgeting and jumping at her own shadow.  If she was still a student, he would have happily taken a round fifty points from Ravenclaw.  _Actually, make it hundred, _he thought_.  Fifty for her and fifty for her bloody grandfather.  _

"Good day, Miss Gwir," he spat at her, then stalked out of the room.

_Sticky-footed mugwump indeed._

He was just outside the door when he heard the old man chuckling in the room behind him.

"Not much of a sense of humor, that one."

"He's not so bad, Grandfather."

_Good gods_, he thought, _she talks to the old man when no one's around.  Doesn't _she_ at least realize he doesn't exist?_

"Hmmm.  Like him, do you?" the wizard's voice followed him down the hall.

"I wouldn't go so far as that, no.  I just said he isn't that awful."

"Hmmm."

Snape gritted his teeth and glared at a couple of passing Hufflepuffs, who scurried out of his path with some alarm.  

Voldemort had set his eye on the Glamour Casting Instructor, and he, Snape, had to do something about it.  And now it appeared that the woman was quite insane.

Worst of all, he feared the insanity might be catching.

By the time he reached his chambers in the dungeons, Snape was in a thoroughly foul mood.

~*~

Snape kept himself occupied until well after midnight.  He had no desire to lay awake with his thoughts tonight.  As a matter of fact, he never had such a desire.  There were times—the night after his last meeting with Voldemort, for example—when he was too drained to keep his wandering thoughts firmly in check.  For the most part, however, he avoided introspective late-night maundering.  No good came of it.  It was a weakness.

He inventoried the supply room and made lists of all the potions ingredients that needed to be procured from Professor Sprout, purchased in Diagon Alley, or ordered from abroad.  He set up the lab for tomorrow's classes, neatly laying out all the tools and substances that would be required for each lesson.  

He considered planning the conversation that he needed to have—and soon—with Annwyd Gwir.

_"Instructor Gwir, there is a situation that you should be aware of…."_

_"Miss Gwir, how much do you know about Lord Voldemort and his followers?"_

_"Annwyd…"_

He paused, considering the unfamiliar feel of her first name.

_"Annwyd, you are in danger.  You need to trust me."_

_And _that's_ likely isn't it?  You're so good at winning people's warm regard._

The fact was, he didn't really know her and therefore wasn't certain what would be most likely to achieve the results he needed.  He wasn't inclined to entirely discount his first impressions.  Despite her recent gains in confidence, he suspected there was a fair amount of self-doubt remaining beneath the surface.  Was it best for his own purposes to capitalize on those insecurities or assuage them?

He ate a late dinner alone in his rooms, served by a silent and nervous house elf.  During his solitary meal, he found himself reviewing the afternoon and, in particular, his own…odd response to the voice-cast glamour Miss Gwir had demonstrated.  

_'Odd' isn't quite the word for it_, prompted a certain part of his mind.  

He considered this thought and discarded it.  It had been…yes, odd.  That was sufficient.  

If the experience warranted any further analysis, that was best undertaken during the sober hours of daylight when the mind was less inclined towards whimsy and distraction.

And really, did it merit any further thought at all?  He had been taken by surprise by an unfamiliar form of magic, and he was no doubt feeling a bit strained from overwork and the impending task involving Instructor Gwir.  To think it had been more than that was foolish.  

A poem about faeries written by a Muggle poet?  Pathetic really.  This poet—Yales, Yates, whatever his name was—was obviously one of those sad Muggles who went around gawking at the moon and pining for magic they didn't really believe in.  It was a laughable condition that seemed to infect some Muggles, this longing for magic.  But he, Snape, was a wizard for gods' sake.  He lived and worked with magic on a daily basis.  

_So what does a wizard long for when life seems tiresome and mundane?_

Pushing aside the remains of the meal, he decided to tackle a stack of fourth year essays.  If the horrors of student prose wouldn't keep his mind free from fanciful thoughts, then nothing would.

Finally, after scrawling a particularly vicious set of comments on the essays, he felt his eyes starting to grow heavy.  He straightened his desk, extinguished the lights, and got ready for bed.

His efforts appeared to have served their purpose well.  Moments after climbing into bed, he was asleep.

~*~

In the dream, Snape was walking through a forest.  It was twilight and the air was cold.  He pulled his cloak around him.  There was something in this forest he needed to find, but he couldn't seem to remember what it was.  It felt like he'd been walking for a long time.

From somewhere in the distance, he heard a noise.  A few notes of music, a simple but haunting refrain.  This was it, he remembered with sudden excitement.  He was supposed to find out where the music was coming from.  He strode forward more eagerly now, following the wisps of music.  

Was it a flute? he wondered.  An oboe?  He couldn't be sure.  There was something terribly sad but terribly sweet in that distant melody, and it seemed very important that he follow it.

Suddenly pain and heat erupted in his arm.  He staggered under the sudden onslaught, frightened and confused.  Was he injured?  He didn't recall being injured—couldn't, at the moment, recall anything but walking through the trees.  He looked at his arm.  It appeared undamaged, the sleeve unripped, unbloodied.  

The burning sensation intensified.  It was growing excruciating.  He clawed at his sleeve and pushed it up to the elbow.  Then he saw the serpent and the skull and it all came back.

The Dark Mark.  How could he have forgotten?  He was a Death Eater and Voldemort was calling him.

_Gods it hurts_, he thought.

_Answer it_, said a high, cold voice behind his shoulder.

He whirled but there was no one behind him.  

_Answer it._

_No_.  There was something he needed to do.  Something he needed to find.  Something important.  He thought he heard a sound at the edge of his awareness, but he couldn't focus properly.  The fire in his arm was eclipsing everything else.

_The pain will stop if you answer the summons.  You know what to do. _The voice was coming from just behind his ear  This time he didn't turn to look.  He knew there would be nothing to see.

He realized he was holding a wand, though it hadn't been there a moment ago.  If he spoke the words, the trees would vanish and the burning sensation would stop.  

He hesitated, somehow reluctant to leave the forest.  _Why_? he asked himself.  There was nothing here.  He was alone.  It was cold and growing dark.  There was nothing for him to find, no reason to stay.

He spoke the words.

He was standing in a bare stone chamber.  There was a nude girl with raven-dark hair kneeling on the floor at his feet.  She caressed his legs, rubbed her face and breasts against his thighs.  The strong perfume of her body rose to his nostrils.  He felt himself responding, felt her face nuzzling against his hip, felt her warm breath against his growing erection.   

_A little reward for your hard work, Severus.  _

"I don't want her," he whispered.

_You do want her._

He did.

The pain in his arm had grown less, though it hadn't vanished.   

_Answer it.  You know what to do._

He seized the girl's dark hair and pulled her to her feet.  Her eyes were black and intense.  _Desire?_  _Fear?_  It didn't matter.  With his right hand still grasping her by the hair, he pressed his left arm to the side of her face.  She screamed.

He felt—sweet rush of relief—the pain flowing out of him.  He let his arm drop, saw the skull and snake burned onto the girl's tear-stained cheek.

_You see? _said the cold voice_.  She is marked.  She is yours.  There is no pain now, only power._

His body was suddenly filled with a different kind of fire, not painful but fierce and intoxicating.  He pulled the girl towards him, crushed her body against his, and kissed her violently, his mouth devouring hers.

He forced her to the floor.  His clothes had vanished and her body was smooth and hot against his own chilled skin.  And he _did_ want her, wanted to touch her everywhere and possess her and make her cry out with pleasure and desire.  

_Or pain_, suggested the cold voice.  

_No_.  He brushed the voice aside.  

He didn't want to harm her.  He just desperately wanted to feel the softness and heat and living pulse of her, wanted to make her want him and cling to him and enfold him—

Then he looked into the girl's eyes and his chest filled with ice.  Those beautiful dark eyes were as glassy as a doll's.  There was no spirit in them, no warm flare of life.  They were the eyes of something dead or broken.  Only far back in their depths was a tiny spark of awareness, and it cowered back away from his gaze, terrified.  Terrified of _him_.

"Oh gods," he whispered.  He sat up and gathered the girl against his chest, holding her against his body, rocking her.  "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

What was he doing here?  He had vowed not to do this again.

_A foolish vow_, the voice said.  _You worry yourself for nothing.  She is nothing._

Ignoring the voice, he bowed his head and buried his face in the girl's dark hair, still cradling her and rocking her.  He closed his eyes and breathed in the warm soft scent of her.  _Oh gods I'm sorry.  Never again, I promise._

After a long time, he felt the girl moving.  Her arms reached up and circled around his shoulders.  When he opened his eyes he was startled to see that her hair wasn't black, as he had thought.  No, it was a rich red-brown.  And when she tilted her head back to look up at him, her eyes were bright and alive, warm and green.

One of her hands slid under his hair to clasp the back of his neck.  Her other hand stroked his face softly.  The touch was light but he felt electric sparks in the brush of her fingertips.  Those green eyes seemed to sparkle with invitation.  

When he  lowered his lips to hers, he wanted to be gentle, meant to touch her lightly as she was touching him, but the hunger was suddenly too great and he kissed her roughly, forcing her mouth open to his, tasting her tongue and claiming her lips with his teeth.  Her fingers gripped the back of his neck and her other hand tangled in his hair, pulling him harder against her.  

Oh gods she wanted it, wanted him, wanted the heat and violence of it.  

He closed his eyes and a pattern of sparks danced behind his eyelids, sparks like leaves caught in a fierce wind.  Her heartbeat thundered under his hands like hoof beats and when he pushed her down and her legs twined around him, he heard the quickening melody of distant, wild music.

~*~

When he woke—trembling, alone in his darkened room, the Dark Mark like a chunk of ice embedded in his arm—he began the grim process of pushing the dream away.  

He certainly did not want to think of it the next time he faced Annwyd Gwir.


	6. Chapter 6

****

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

****

****

**Chapter 6**

Another week of the term was almost over.  Annwyd Gwir had just finished teaching her Thursday class of fourth year students and she was looking forward to lunch with Professor Lupin.  His class, however, didn't end for another hour, and there was a stack of work on her desk that she needed to attend to.  

She preferred to take most of her meals in private, either alone in her rooms or with one or two other teachers.  Dumbledore seemed to find this disappointing.  He obviously liked the camaraderie of the Great Hall and he would have been pleased, she thought, had she joined the rest of the staff at the high table more often.  But she still found it hard to be comfortable in the presence of so many people, and when she forced herself to attend a meal in the Hall—as she did once or twice a week, for the sake of appearances—she rarely ate more than a few bites.  Thankfully, the headmaster hadn't pushed the issue.

As she reached the bottom of the staircase that led to her office, she immediately saw Professor Snape rounding the corner, most likely returning from a visit to the Slytherin common room or dormitories, which were also located in the dungeons.

"Professor Snape," she acknowledged him as their paths brought them closer together.

"Instructor," he nodded stiffly in return.

Her office and his, as well as the Potions classroom, opened onto a small anteroom behind the door at the end of the corridor.  Snape was clearly headed that way, just as she was.

When they reached the door, Snape opened it and stood well out of the way, allowing her to precede him into the room.  He waited until she was well inside before following.  She found herself irked, as she often was, by his overly elaborate formality.  It wasn't that she had anything against having a door held open for her, not under normal circumstances.  But with Snape, she had developed the distinct impression that the gesture was not inspired by courtesy so much as it was intended to ensure that he didn't touch her.   His movements seemed calculated to prevent any accidental brushing of a hand or shoulder that might otherwise have occurred.  

He was the same in all his interactions with her.  One would think that two people who worked together, saw each other on a daily basis, and shared adjoining offices might just occasionally bump elbows in the hallway, but it never happened.  If he had to hand her a quill or a sheet of parchment, it was always done in such a way that precluded any possibility of their fingers meeting even for an instant.  

Snape disappeared into his office without another word.  She sighed as she went through her own door and sat down at her desk.  The man's extremely reserved notions of personal space would have probably gone unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that she'd been pointedly waiting for just such an accidental brush of skin.

It was all because of that stupid protection spell he had cast on her door.  He'd had to touch her to set the wards, and she'd been emotional and vulnerable at the moment, and no one had touched her at all for a long time.  So somehow that short and totally insignificant moment of contact had settled into her psyche as if it meant something.  In spite of her best efforts to see it as the ridiculous fluke it surely must have been, her mind had insisted on stubbornly replaying the incident long after it had happened.  

While she was waiting for this foolishness to pass, she had decided to pay special attention the next time there was any physical contact between herself and Snape.  She was certain—well, _almost_ certain, anyway—that it would be unremarkable when it happened, and then her body could finally accept what her mind had been trying to tell it, namely, that any unusual feeling had come from the spell and not from the Potions Master per se.  

All of which would have been well and good, except that there had never been a next time.  Unless she were to do something terribly obvious—like pretending to trip and throwing herself into him, which she simply couldn't muster the nerve to do—he was making it impossible for her to arrange any "accidental" contact.  His very presence seemed to preclude such an attempt.  There was something around him which wasn't quite a glamour of deflection but which served that purpose equally well, some force of will that repelled interaction and frustrated her efforts to read the subtle energies.  

In short, her plan for disarming the disturbing memory of his hand covering hers had completely backfired.  Replacing that flash of heat with a mundane little bump of fingers or elbows might have done the trick quite nicely, but having found herself unable to sense anything of his feelings and unable touch him in even the smallest way was having just the opposite effect.  The more she couldn't do it, the more she wanted to.

_I am thinking about this far_ too much._  _

She forced her attention to the pile of student work in front of her.  The scrolls were in a mess with third, fourth, and fifth year students all mixed together.  She shook her head at her own habitual disorganization and began sorting them into neat piles.  From the next room, she could hear the faint scratching of a quill.  Probably Snape writing something outlandishly derogatory on one of poor Neville Longbottom's assignments.

After a few moments, the scratching ceased.  There was a brief silence, then the scraping of a chair, followed by footsteps and the click of a door opening and closing.  Apparently Snape had finished whatever business he had in his office.  The air in the room seemed to become slightly thinner.  _Well, good_, she thought.  _Maybe now I can concentrate on these quizzes_.

Actually, she'd been doing rather well at avoiding thinking of Snape—up until the last few days.  

From any sensible point of view, working with Snape had been more painless than she would have expected.  That was the thing she ought to focus on.  And she was learning to ignore his more obviously annoying traits with increasing ease..  

Last week, when he'd come to observe her class with the fifth years, she managed to forget his presence for most of the lecture.  He'd been stiff and scowling after her class, had seemed unreasonably offended by the fact that she already had plans for lunch—even though she'd politely asked him along—and he obviously hadn't been impressed with her lesson.  He hadn't even bothered listening to the second voice-cast glamour she did.  In a nutshell, it was a typical day with Snape.  And she had been quite pleased with herself for thinking almost nothing of it at all.  

She'd gone on to have a most enjoyable lunch with Professor Lupin, had gone for a walk about the grounds afterwards, and had even lingered on the Quidditch field for a while to watch the Gryffindors practice.  And all with nary a thought of the Potions Master.  Even the mysterious "something important" he wanted to discuss with her had completely slipped her mind.    

The following morning, when he'd stalked through her office to his supply room, he'd seemed to be in an especially foul temper, and he looked like he'd slept badly or was getting sick.  He'd practically snapped her head off when she asked if he was all right.  But nonetheless, throughout the day—throughout the next several days—she'd kept getting the feeling that he was watching her, and not with his usual measuring stare or arrogant sneer.  She'd feel his eyes on her and then glance up to see him looking away.  Even when he was in his office next door and she was in hers, there had been a feeling of tension in the air, like the charged atmosphere just before a thunderstorm.  _That_ was not helping her to maintain the sensible attitude.

It was difficult to get clear impressions from the man, and the whole thing might be her own overheated imagination, those suppressed late-night fancies popping up uninvited in the daylight. She half-hoped it _was_ imagination.  But, she admitted, only half.  She wished he wasn't quite so hard to read.   

She reined in her thoughts and turned her attention back to the scrolls.  

During the next hour, she managed to grade quite a few of them.  Once she got her mind to focus on the task, it was interesting to see her students' fledgling understanding—and numerous misunderstandings—of the glamours.  

Hermione Granger's quiz included a very detailed an accurate definition of _Subtle Body_—in fact, Miss Granger seemed to have memorized that part of her lecture almost word for word:

_The subtle body is a layer of energy which emanates from a person or other living thing.  Strictly speaking, it is not separate from the mundane physical body any more than heat is separate from fire.   While the structures of the mundane body are responsible for maintaining physical existence, patterns in the subtle body are responsible for the qualities of sensory, emotional, and intellectual experience.  The energies expand and contract depending on the circumstances, and the subtle body can extend energy tendrils as it interacts with the energies of others.   Imposing a new pattern on the subtle body directly changes the thoughts and feelings of the subject, resulting in an illusion._

_The subtle energies are imperceptible to most witches and wizards, though some have a natural talent for sensing them.  Everyone can learn to perceive the subtle bodies (to some degree) by practicing exercises that increase awareness.  Even some Muggles can learn to sense these energies, but only magical people can learn to manipulate them and create glamours.   _

Annwyd smiled as she gave Miss Granger full marks for her answer.  She was less pleased with Mr. Goyle's:

_The suttel body is a big egg of energy.  It's kind of like light but different.  It has tentackles._

She sighed as she wrote tactful corrections in the margin.  Maybe one day, she mused, her arts would be standard knowledge as they had once been, not an obscure curiosity.  Grandfather would have liked that.  He had always said that eventually their arts would be restored to the status they deserved, even if he didn't live to see it.  And maybe, by teaching at Hogwarts, she could help to bring that day closer to reality.  

By the time she was due to meet Lupin, she had forgotten about Snape and his irritating habits and was thinking of nothing but a good meal and pleasant conversation.

~*~

It was a fine autumn day, exactly the kind that Annwyd liked best.  The sky was a deep, clear blue and the air was cool and crisp.  The leaves were an explosion of orange and crimson, and the late afternoon sun painted heavy streaks of gold across the grass.  She was glad that Lupin had agreed to lunch in the gardens instead of the staff room.  It might be a bit chilly for some people's tastes—they were both wearing their cloaks—but the day was worth it.  

She bit into an apple with relish, and its cold, crisp tartness seemed like an edible version of autumn's delights.  There would probably be few remaining days as fine as this one before fall gave way to winter.

Professor Lupin smiled at her.  "You seem happy today, Annwyd."

She nodded, wiping apple juice from her chin.  "I _am_ happy," and as she said it, she realized it was true.  "My classes are going well, and I like the students.  Dumbledore pops round every few days with a cup of tea or a bag of toffees—checking up on me, I suppose, but he's awfully nice about it.   Most of the faculty are being pretty friendly, and I haven't see McGonagall all week.  Plus it's a lovely day.  So what's not to be happy about?"

"It _is_ especially fine weather for October," he agreed, looking around the gardens with appreciation.  She could sense his comfortable, unassuming presence sweeping lightly across the space between them and brushing over the trees and the season's late flowers.  "And it's good to see you looking less…apprehensive?"

"I think 'panic-stricken' is the word you're searching for."  He shrugged and gave her a half-grin.  "It's okay.  The truth is, I was scared half to death.  It's taken me all these weeks to get it through my head that I'm not one tiny slip-up away from being sent home again.  And even if I am, I won't be fourteen, and Mother won't be coming to collect me at the station."  _Like a an unwanted piece of lost luggage that must nonetheless be claimed_, she mentally added.  But she let the thought go.  It was too nice an afternoon to spoil.

"I take it from your list of the day's charms that you haven't made much headway with Minerva?"

She shook her head.  "Haven't even tried, to be honest."

"She'll come round eventually.  She's a fine person really.  A little sharp sometimes, but her heart's in the right place."

He must have seen the disagreement written on her face.

"I guess your run-in with her must have made a lasting impression on both sides."

"You could say that."

"I was a bit surprised by her attitude, to tell you the truth.  She's always been strict, but I've never seen her single out a particular student quite so…avidly."

"Oh thanks.  I feel so special."  But she smiled to let him know that it was okay.  She knew there was no attack, no sense of reproach, behind the words.  "And I'm glad you get on with her all right, seeing as she's your assigned watch-dog."

"Mostly she lets me alone to do my work.  She seems to think the supervision is a bit silly since I've taught here before.  And I have to agree."  He sighed.  "But, the Ministry is the Ministry, and it's a waste of time to expect sense and efficiency out of that lot.  Especially with Cornelius Fudge at the helm."

Annwyd merely nodded.  She'd never had any dealings with Fudge herself, but he seemed to be universally disliked at Hogwarts.

"And speaking of assigned watch-dogs, I have to say I don't envy you Snape.  I hope he's not giving you too much grief."

"No, not too much."  Whatever irritation she privately felt concerning her supervising professor was not something she cared to share with Lupin.  And it was better—better for her own peace of mind as well as her privacy—to consider Snape in a more professional light. "All in all, he's been quite decent."  

Lupin's face expressed mild disbelief.  "That's surprising.  To say the least."

"Well, aside from the scowls and the sarcasm and all that, he's actually been rather helpful."

Lupin didn't argue, but he didn't look convinced.

"He gave me a magical map of Hogwarts, for one thing."

That seemed to catch Lupin's attention.

"A magical _map_?"

"Yes."  She took it out of her pocket and showed it to him.  "See, there's a little red dot here where it says 'gardens.'  That's where I am—or where the map is, I'm not sure which.  I, um, kept getting lost on the way to my classes."

Lupin surveyed the map for a long moment.  "Well," he admitted at last, "not very original, but I'm glad it's useful.  I should've thought to make you one myself."

"That's okay.  I've got one now, and it _is_ useful.  Not that Snape was nice about it, of course.  I think he said something like 'Maybe you'll be less _bothersome_ to the rest of us if you can find your way around without help.'   But still, minus the sneer, it was sort of thoughtful of him."

"I suppose," said Lupin noncommittally.

"You should have seen him when he heard he had to share his office space.  I thought he was going to throttle Dumbledore on the spot.  But after he finished grinding his teeth and looking daggers at everyone, he helped me settle in.  Came up with a bunch of little things I might need.  He even levitated the furniture to make it the way I wanted it when he saw me trying to lift one of the bookcases.  So I guess he's not as bad as I thought he was when I was a student."

"Annwyd," said Lupin earnestly, "since you're stuck working with Snape, I'm glad it's going well.  I really am.  But be careful, okay?  Don't…take anything for granted."

"What do you mean?"  She was surprised by how serious he looked and she could feel the shift, the sharpening of his attention.

"I just don't think that Snape has changed much over the years.  And I have no reason to believe that he's any kinder to his fellow teachers than he is to his students, as a rule.  If Snape is being helpful, there's a reason for it, and it might not be a reason you'd like."

"Well, I'm guessing that Dumbledore told him to help me out.  Part of supervising my work and all that."

"Yeah, maybe."   

A second later, another idea occurred to her.  "Lupin, you're not suggesting that Snape has taken, er, a _romantic_ interest in me, are you?  Because I really don't think it's anything like _that_."  Well, during the past few days, the thought had crossed her mind, but she was making a point of not taking it seriously.

Lupin laughed.  "Gods, no!  That would be my very last suspicion."

She must have looked a bit indignant, because he quickly added, "Not that someone wouldn't be interested in you, of course.  I just can't imagine Snape with a romantic interest in anyone.  I've known him for years—we were students here at the same time, you know—and I don't think Snape has ever been interested in another living creature of any sort if he can't give it detention or dice it up to use in a potion."

He didn't like Snape, that was clear.  Even without the words, she would have known from the sudden hard edge to the air around him.  But Annwyd decided to let it pass without comment.  She felt disinclined to discuss the Potions Master's romantic interests or lack thereof.

"I'm glad he's not making your life miserable.  That's something.  Just don't….  I wouldn't trust him too far if I were you.  He's got a nasty streak that's more than skin-deep."

Annwyd nodded.  

The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor waited patiently to see if she was going to add anything more.  After a moment, seeing that she wasn't inclined to do so, he tactfully changed the subject.  The sharp, focused quality of the air between them softened.

"I hear interesting things about your classes."

_He's considerate, _she thought,_ and he's trying to look out for me.  Rather like Dumbledore, in a way.  _

 "Likewise," she said out loud.  "You seem to be something of a favorite, especially with the Gryffindors."

"Hmmm," he nodded modestly.  "They're a good lot, by and large.  I hear," he added, "that you have a somewhat unusual classroom assistant."

"Grandfather?  Yes, he's been a great asset.  It's much easier for me to let him do a lot of the talking.  After all, that's the way I remember my own lessons.  And he could've been a fine professor, I think, if circumstances had been a little different."

"If half the rumors I hear from the students are true, he's an entertaining character.  And a fine old gentleman as well."

"The finest," affirmed Annwyd with a touch of pride.  It was nice to hear that Grandfather was appreciated by the students.  He'd gotten little enough acknowledgement from the wizarding world while he was alive.  Not that he'd sought it, of course, but, in Annwyd's opinion, he surely deserved it.

"I'd like to meet him sometime."

Annwyd smiled.  "Maybe you can drop in on one of my lectures.  I'm not supposed to, you know, glamour anything up outside the classroom."

"Not even if another faculty member requests a demonstration?"

"Well…."  She was certainly tempted.  The conversation about Professor Snape had left her feeling unsettled, and the truth was, she was always itching to use her arts.  The constraints she'd promised to keep still chafed.  "All right.  But if word gets back to Dumbledore, I intend to place all the blame on you."

"Agreed, Miss Gwir," said Lupin.  "Let's see the old fellow."

Annwyd drew the well-practiced pattern in the air, and the old wizard was suddenly sitting beside them.  He rubbed his leathery hands together in the cool air and smiled merrily at Annwyd and Lupin.  

"Annwyd, love, you're looking well," he said to Annwyd.  He turned to her companion.  "Professor Lupin, I presume?"

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Gwir."

Lupin started to extend his hand for a handshake, then thought better of it, sparing Annwyd from having to call up a glamour of touch.  Instead, he settled for a nod and a friendly smile.

"Lupin, hmmm?" the old wizard grinned.  "You must be our wolf."

Lupin's face suddenly turned grey and the smile vanished.  

"Excuse me?"

Annwyd couldn't understand why he looked so shaken, angry even.  Turning Grandfather's eccentricities on Snape might have been—okay, definitely was—a mistake, but she hadn't expected Lupin to be offended.  And by Grandfather's usual standards, "wolf" was mild.

"He's only teasing, Professor," she said hastily.  "He does that to everyone, you know.  It's an old habit.  Be happy you weren't a sticky-footed mugwump.  Snape didn't seem to care for that one at all."

Lupin laughed, but clearly it was forced.  He had withdrawn into himself, and the space around him felt empty.

"No, I don't imagine he would."  

He seemed to be recovering himself, and his face had regained some of its normal color.  Still, he was at a distance now.  There was something strange going on.  She would have been certain, till just a moment ago, that Lupin would find Grandfather amusing.

"Are you all right?  Really, I—we didn't mean—I didn't mean to offend you."

She dropped the glamour.

"No, it's fine.  I'm sorry I reacted like that.  I was just surprised I guess.  I'm not accustomed to meeting glamoured folks."

_He's lying.  I have no idea why, but he's lying.  _

She decided not to press it.  He hadn't pushed her when she'd decided to drop the discussion of Professor Snape, and clearly he didn't want to explain his reaction to the glamour.

"No apology needed," she said.  "I'm sure it must be strange if you're not used to it."

"Well," said Lupin, with an almost-normal smile, "it's been an excellent lunch, but I have a meeting with Minerva I need to go to.  She insists on observing at least some semblance of overseeing my work."

"Oh, of course," Annwyd said, trying not to feel hurt.  They usually had a leisurely chat after they'd finished eating.

"Shall we have lunch again next week?  Next Thursday?"  A mild flicker of warmth extended, then vanished again.  

"Yes, that would be nice."  

Well, at least he still wanted to have lunch with her again.  She was glad that whatever just happened hadn't made him change his mind about that.  She'd been enjoying their weekly lunches very much.  She needed a friend, and she would be sorry to lose Lupin over an incident she didn't begin to understand.

"Good-bye, Annwyd.  See you later."

"Bye," she said, forcing a smile.  "I hope the meeting's painless."

"I'm sure it'll be fine.  Enjoy the rest of the day."

"I will," she promised.  

She privately thought, however, that the afternoon had lost some of its charm.

~*~

After leaving the gardens, Annwyd had strolled aimlessly across the grounds and finally into the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.  It was calm and quiet here.  The huge trees and the small creatures that scurried among them wove a comfortable tapestry of energies she could relax in.  She knew that there were larger, more formidable beasts in the forest as well, but she wasn't worried.  Animals were easily fooled by glamours, and she was permitted to cast in self-defense.

Losing her way also didn't concern her.  She had a good enough sense of direction when she was outdoors.  It was human habitations that confused her, the shifting energies of crowds that tended to make her lose her bearings.  As she meandered, pausing here and there to touch the bole of a tree or observe the activity of a bird or insect, she wished that people were as easy to deal with as these simple plant and animal lives.  

But perhaps Grandfather had been right.  One couldn't hide away from the world forever.

And, in spite of her disparaging thoughts about humans, she was lonely.  

She could—and did—glamour up her grandfather often enough, but deep down she knew it wasn't the same as a real person.  

Dumbledore was always pleasant and charming, but he was the headmaster and the greatest wizard in Britain.  A benevolent presence, and one she was grateful for, but not exactly someone she could think of as a friend.

She envied the warm camaraderie that seemed to be developing between Clarice du Bois and Professor Sprout.  She wished she could be included in that friendship—du Bois seemed nice enough, if a trifle boring, and she had always liked Sprout—but the two Herbologists were entirely taken up with their plans for a new greenhouse and they had little time to spare for anyone else.  Annwyd had even offered to assist them with some of the new plants, but they assured her that all was well in hand.  Probably they didn't want to entrust their exotic new species to a non-specialist, she thought.  And perhaps they hadn't realized that she was offering partly because she wanted company, not just in an effort to be polite.

Most of the other professors had come to acknowledged her presence gracefully enough, and she had accepted a number of invitations to lunch, dinner, and tea.  But the fact was that they had little in common.  Many of them were three times her age and probably could barely remember their own first terms as teachers.  More significantly, she was not adept at their arts, nor they at hers, and there was a polite but distinct acknowledgement of the differences.

So basically, that left Lupin and Snape.  And her lunch with Lupin had left her feeling worried about both.

Until today, she had been fairly confident that she was developing a comfortable friendship with Lupin.  They shared a meal once or twice a week, and she always found his company enjoyable.  She hoped that she hadn't done something to damage the relationship.  She had mulled it over throughout the afternoon, but she still had no idea what had disturbed him.

She thought it was going to be all right—he had pointedly arranged lunch for next week—but it still felt bad to know that she had offended him somehow without meaning to.  And it felt worse that he had lied about it.

And finally, she admitted, she felt rather defensive, and a little indignant, that he had not liked Grandfather.  In her eyes, the old man was so thoroughly lovable that she had expected her new friend to feel the same.  It wasn't like the incident with Snape, which—had she not been caught up in a sudden urge to mischief—she could have surely expected to end badly.

_Snape_.  She sighed.  _Now there's a whole other kettle of fish._

She certainly couldn't call the man a friend.  Indeed, if she listed the qualities which made Lupin promising in that department, Snape would be the exact opposite of the list.  And now Lupin was giving her earnest warnings not to trust him.

Still, when she said that Snape had been helpful, she hadn't been lying.  

Perhaps the most surprising event of all—and something she hadn't brought up at lunch—had occurred in one of the classes that Snape was observing.  

Draco Malfoy, a snotty Slytherin she had disliked on sight, had quickly figured out that he could nettle her with poorly disguised insinuations about the low esteem accorded to Glamour Casters and the impropriety of having a teacher who was inept when it came to "real" magic.  During the second week of the term, she was just starting her lesson when Malfoy said to one of his nasty little cohorts, in a whisper that was clearly meant to be overheard, _"__Did you notice that she doesn't even carry a wand?  I hear she's practically a Squib!"  _

She was determined to ignore the comment and continue with her lecture, but she felt the heat rising to her cheeks.  She could hear, all too clearly in her memory, her mother's infinitely disgusted and disappointed voice_: "It must come from your father's side.  That's all I can say.  No one in _my_  family's__ ever been a Squib._  _How do you expect me to face my friends?"_

Then a low voice from the back of the classroom had interrupted her thoughts.

_"Excuse me, Instructor, but might I say a word? Mr. Malfoy, perhaps Miss Gwir, being a new instructor, is not yet accustomed to the system of House points.  But I will take twenty points from Slytherin for your rudeness, and if I hear of it again, it will be fifty."_

It was hard to say who was more surprised—Malfoy, the Gryffindor students, or herself.  

Since then the fifth year Slytherins, including Malfoy, had barely uttered a peep in her classroom, for which she was truly and unabashedly grateful.

Still, it was a little strange, wasn't it?  Snape's preferential treatment of the students from his own house was legendary.  And she had later gathered from overheard snippets of conversation that Malfoy was generally a favorite.  It was puzzling. 

_Is Lupin right?  Does Snape have some kind of ulterior motive?_

If he did, she couldn't imagine what it would be.  She didn't have any money, any influence, or any family connections—none of the normal things that might cause someone to surreptitiously curry her favor.  

And what about the "something important" he'd been so determined to discuss with her last week?  What was that about and, if it was so important, why had he not mentioned it again?  For no reason she could pinpoint, the matter had developed a vaguely ominous feel around the edges.  Probably just nerves and Lupin's over-protective warnings, she decided.  That and the fact that Snape remained so guarded, so impervious to the perceptions that usually guided her.

At any rate, this was a kettle of fish she'd thought about enough—and more than enough—for one day.

Her wandering had brought her to a clearing in the trees, and she decided to sit down for a few minutes.  It was getting colder as the sun dipped lower and the shadows deepened, but she was warm enough wrapped in her cloak, and the ground was dry.  Resting her back against an enormous oak, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

She could feel the bole of the tree supporting her back and she could feel its strong, patient life supporting her as well.  It reached down into the earth and up into the sky, slowly turning soil and sunlight into leaves and branches.   So old, so secure with its deep roots and its towering limbs….  

Its energy didn't react to her presence—she was too fleeting for its long slow awareness, here and gone in a flash as it contemplated the passing years and the endless circle of seasons.  And yet, perhaps it _was_ aware of her, like an old man dreaming of his distant childhood might be aware of a moth that landed briefly on his hand.  It accepted her, and her own mind felt calmer and stronger leaning against it.

For several long moments she simply sat and thought of nothing.

Then, after a while, her mind returned to its earlier musings, but with more detachment now with less worry.

Without premeditation, she traced the air and Professor Lupin sat next to her.  Other than Grandfather, her glamours rarely spoke or acted unless she specifically intended it.  Grandfather's glamour, she supposed, was so well-known and so often produced that it had practically taken on a life of its own, drawing on her rich store of memories.  

She surveyed Lupin's patched robes, his brown hair flecked with early grey, and his tired but kind face.  A good man, she decided.  Whatever the problem had been today, it would sort itself out.  If he still seemed strange or awkward next week, then she'd just ask him about it.  Case closed.  She dropped the glamour.

After a little twitch of indecision, she drew another pattern and Professor Snape glided through the trees, his long cloak billowing behind him.  He paused in the center of the clearing, staring off at something in the distance.  She kept the glamour from turning in her direction.  Even if he wasn't real, she didn't feel like facing those fathomless eyes at the moment.  

She felt a flush of guilty pleasure at being able to study him at her leisure like this, without his knowledge or permission.  Not strictly in keeping with her promise to Dumbledore, she supposed, nor with her promise to Snape that she wouldn't glamour his likeness.  But it didn't hurt anything, did it?  Dumbledore said she could practice in private, and this deserted clearing was pretty damn private.  And since Snape wouldn't encounter or hear about his doppelganger, he had nothing to be upset about, really.

Her eyes ran over his tall, lean form.  He was like a portrait done in only two colors: ivory and black.  The rest of the world's hues seemed frivolous and gaudy next to his elegant starkness.  Pale face and hands, black hair, black clothes, black eyes.  At that thought, he turned in her direction and she caught a flash of those eyes, their dark glitter.  

With a little push of concentration, she willed his gaze away from her.  

He was not a handsome man, not really.  His nose was large and hawkish, his hair a bit uncared for, his lips colorless and hard.  Ah, but that last was a dangerous thought.  She instantly started to wonder what his mouth would look like under different circumstances—slack with desire or twisted with pleasure instead of anger—and what his lips would feel like against her skin, if they would fill her with the same dark heat that she remembered from his palm pressed against her hand.  Her pulse sped and her legs felt warm and weak.  

_Oh gods, this was a bad idea.  _

Her hand sliced the glamour.  She leaned her head back against the tree and closed her eyes again, trying to recapture that earlier feeling of peace.  

The web of forest energies, however, seemed to side with her body rather than her common sense.  It _was_ calm and tranquil here, and yet…there was a deep pulse of longing woven into the earth's tapestry…the yearning of plants for water and sun, of predators for prey, of small beasts for the warmth of other bodies in snug burrows…and of every sort of creature for its mate.  Her own desires throbbed with the rhythm of the that longing.

_There's been too little of that in my life_, she thought.  

During her third year at Hogwarts there had been a brown-haired Gryffindor boy with a quick, crooked grin that she had thought of—with dramatic sighs—as her _boyfriend_.   It was typical thirteen-year-old puppy love, she supposed, complete with secret notes, daring hand-holding, and a few kisses stolen after a butterbeer in Hogsmeade.  

During those brief student years, she had stayed with her mother in London for the Christmas holidays and for a few weeks out of the summers.  Mother lived in an elegant townhouse with her second husband—Annwyd could never think of him as a step-father, much less as simply _father_—she barely knew him—and during those visits Mother had, for once, taken an interest in her daughter's life.  Most of that interest had involved dragging Annwyd around to various teas and parties with the high-society wizardry of London and, in between these dreaded social gatherings, delivering bits of woman-to-woman advice on finding a "suitable match" at Hogwarts.  _"Don't make the mistake I made, Annwyd.  Get it right the first time."  _

She never found out, however, whether her Gryffindor boy would have met Mother's standards for a suitable match.  By the end of the year she had been dismissed from Hogwarts, Mother had promptly relegated her to the obscurity of Grandfather's cottage once again, and there were no more visits to London and no more hints about eligible young wizards from pureblood families.  

Which, by and large, had been a blessing.  

She certainly hadn't missed the confusing chaos of London or the elegant, suffocating parties, at which she always completely failed to make the right impression.  

_"Act confident, Annwyd.  Stop looking so nervous.  Be charming!"  _

_"And for gods' sake _don't_ use your grandfather's stupid illusions!_" 

_Well, which do you want?_ she had always wanted to ask.  

So overall she had been happy enough to re-settle into Grandfather's little cottage, where life proceeded more or less as if she'd never left to attend Hogwarts.  It did, however, leave something to be desired in the way of matches, suitable or not.  

_"Annwyd, you must be lonely here_," the old man had said one evening when she was seventeen.

_"No, of course I'm not.  I have you, don't I?"_

A few days later, he had discreetly added a footnote to her casting lessons—spoken as if it was merely a bit of trivia and nothing to do with her personally.  

_"Over the years, it hasn't been unknown for a wizard to use the arts for a little fun.  'Muggle-mushing' they called it when I was a boy.  Though that was back in the age of the dinosaurs—no doubt there's a new name now."  _

He had given a nostalgic little chuckle.  

_"'Course some kinds of wizards marry Muggles and are happy enough, but it's a hard thing for a young Glamour Caster to attempt it. Too tempting to use the arts and use them the wrong way.   My older brother fell for a sweet little thing from the village once.  Glamoured himself up to look like the handsomest lad she'd ever seen.  Unkind for both of them in the end.  _

_"Not that there's any harm in the pleasures, of course—silly to think that.  But falling under the glamours isn't the same as falling in love.  That's the thing he forgot.  It isn't love."_

Annwyd had taken the tacit warning—and the tacit permission—to heart.

Every now and again, a pretty stranger passed through the village and spent a few hours with a local lad.  Not a surpassingly beautiful stranger that would leave a boy pining over her absence.  Just a girl who was nice enough to look at and was on her way to somewhere else and wouldn't mind some company for an afternoon or evening.  

That wasn't unkind, she thought.

And it wasn't love.

And, after a while, it wasn't worth the effort.    

_I've had a dozen lovers, _she thought_, and none of them know what I look like.  I remember them and they remember a face I made up for them.  _

They remembered, if anything, a pretty but not-_too_-pretty girl with a friendly smile and an unremarkable story:

_"I'm on my way to London to live with my aunt."_

_"I'm seeing the countryside before my family moves to America."_

_"I'm collecting rare butterflies for a project at the university."_

But never the real story, of course.  Never "_I'm Annwyd.  I live just up the road and I'm a witch."_

The pleasure itself had been good enough, she supposed.  But somehow, after the novelty wore off, it was all somehow a little disappointing.  There was always a separate part of her watching herself and thinking, _Oh—so this is what it's like.  Well, yes, it's nic_e.  Sometimes even _very _nice.  But never quite the thunder and lightning she thought it ought to be, or wished it could be.  

She found herself shivering and realized that the sun had disappeared completely.  The forest was growing colder as the twilight faded to gloom.  She roused herself and stretched limbs that had stiffened from sitting too long on the chilled ground.  It was high time to return to the castle.  


	7. Chapter 7

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**Chapter 7**

It was late Monday afternoon and Professor Snape was tired.  His weekend had not been restful.  Nonetheless, he was putting together his notes for the week's lectures.  He did not have classes to teach on Mondays and he always spent the day organizing and preparing for the week ahead.  Tired or not, he didn't intend to vary his routine.  

He was almost finished with the notes when he heard a polite knock on the door connecting his office to Annwyd Gwir's.  Before he had even looked up from his desk, the door opened.  He caught a gleam of red hair from the corner of his eye.

"Excuse me…Professor?"

He disliked people entering without waiting for him to answer, but he bit back a sharp reply.  

"Yes?" he said, without looking up.

"I hope this isn't a bad time…."

He made a noncommittal sound and continued writing.  

"I hope you had a good weekend…?"

_Oh, yes.  I enjoy pacing around my rooms at all hours of the night because it's less disturbing than going to sleep.  Always a charming way to spend one's weekend.  _

"It was fine, thank you.  Can I help you with something, Instructor?"

"Um, I was thinking, I was just wondering…."  She trailed off.

He put down the quill and looked at her.  

The new instructor had not entirely gotten over her fits of nerves and he forced himself to be patient while she stumbled over whatever she had to say.  

She was wearing black robes, he noted idly.  They made her look paler than the usual green.  

"The other day, a week or so ago, after my class, you wanted to talk to me about something.  But I was having lunch with Professor Lupin.  Do you remember?"

Snape nodded.  It was hardly a subject likely to have slipped his mind.

"Well, is there something that we still need to discuss?  I was just wondering what it was."

He wanted to sigh but didn't.  He was stalling—had been stalling for a over a week now—but he still didn't feel prepared to broach the conversation.

"We'll discuss the matter later," he said curtly.

Disappointment, and perhaps anxiety, flickered over her face, but she didn't argue.  She hesitated in the doorway for a second or two, eyes on the floor.

"Well, all right then.  Let me know when you want to talk about it."  

 The door started to close.

"Good evening, Instructor," he said, giving her a final glance.

The door froze and her eyes flashed up at him.  

_Oh gods.  _

He willed his face to be a block of stone and imagined that his eyes were made of ice.  

"Goodbye," she said quietly, eyes on the floor again.  

The door swung shut with a soft click.

Snape picked up his wand and muttered a spell, ensuring that the door would not open again unless he answered it.  Then he laid the wand aside, pressed his forehead into his palm, and allowed the mask to fall away from his face.

_Seven hells._

For a second, he had almost lost his grip.

The gaze that Annwyd Gwir had just flashed across the room at him wasn't quite the same as in his dream, but it had managed to evoke the dream well enough.  The dream he'd been having over and over, with slight variations, for days on end.  The dream that was making pacing the floor more restful than falling asleep.

He had allowed himself a strong dose of Dreamless Sleep twice in the last ten days, but taking it more frequently than once a week was risky.  With repeated use, sleeping potions dulled the mind during waking hours, slowing reactions and clouding observations.  Under the circumstances, he could not afford the risk.  Voldemort could summon him for a report at any time, and Snape did not relish the thought of facing the Dark Lord with his mental faculties impaired.  One tiny slip could be fatal.

But lack of sleep was dangerous as well.  He had almost let his control slip just now, for gods' sake.  And if he couldn't maintain his mask in front of a nervous girl, how did he expect to maintain it under the relentless scarlet gaze of Voldemort?

His mind was well-trained to record details, and he drew on this faculty now, replaying the brief conversion with Gwir, trying to observe it coldly and analytically.

The look he had just seen wasn't the expression of sensual invitation his subconscious insisted on imagining, but it hinted that she was more than able to offer such an expression.  That in itself was not surprising, he supposed.  She was not a child, and not unattractive.  He had no reason to think of her as virginal.  The thing that _was_ surprising—enough that it had taken all his years of well-practiced restraint not to betray himself by suddenly catching his breath—was the way her eyes had seemed to ask, hesitantly, almost shyly, whether _he_ would welcome such an invitation.

From the way her face had fallen and the from tiny twitch of hurt around her mouth, he guessed that he had conveyed his answer clearly.  Not the answer she had wanted, but the only one it was possible to give.  

So at least he had managed something correctly.  

He shook his head.  

Why would she give him such a look?  Women didn't look at him like that.  They never had.

He had worked at curbing his temper around the instructor, had tried in a few small ways to help her settle in, was attempting to establish some basis for trust so that he could do what must be done.  But he was certain that he'd shown none of _that_ sort of interest.   In spite of the dreams that had troubled his sleep for the past many nights—well, more accurately, not in spite of them but _because_ of them—he had been careful, terribly careful, to avoid any thoughts along those lines in her presence, had been careful not to look at her too closely or too long.

But still, he had seen what he had seen.  He wasn't given to flights of imagination.  Too much for too long had depended on his ability to read the subtleties of other people's reactions while revealing little or nothing of his own.  He had seen the flash of interest, and the disappointment that followed.   

It was another complication in a situation he was quickly coming to loathe. 

He needed to take control of circumstances—and soon.  It was unlike him to second-guess and stall.  He simply had to brace himself for the confrontation ahead, plan his approach rationally and well, and then do it and be done with it once and for all.  No matter whether he dreaded it or not.  No matter that, at the moment, he would rather be summoned by Voldemort again—would rather have tea with the monster every day for a month—if only the Dark Lord would lose interest in the Glamour Casting Instructor.  

_Talk to her soon, _he thought_.  Do it tomorrow.  _

He didn't intend to tell Miss Gwir the whole story of course.  That would hardly be helpful or necessary.  Reveal too much and she'd never trust him enough, not even if it was in her own best interests to do so.  He would be wise to provide as little detail as possible.  But even that little would no doubt be sufficient to preclude any wistful looks in the future.

He tried not to think of it as a loss.  Even if Voldemort _did_ change his mind, even if the dreaded conversation never took place at all, what did he, Snape, have to offer Annwyd Gwir?  Nothing that any sane woman would want.

~*~

Perhaps an hour had passed, and Snape was still working when he was disturbed by another knock.  He had heard Instructor Gwir leave sometime earlier, and this knock was at the main door, not the one that led to Annwyd's office.  

"Yes?" he called, loudly enough to be heard through the door.

"Professor Snape?" answered a familiar voice.  

_Oh, perfect_, he thought sourly.  It was Malfoy.

With a sigh of resignation, he composed his features and picked up his wand.  

"_Alohomora_," he muttered.  The door opened.

As soon as Draco walked into the office, Snape knew that something had changed since Friday.  Malfoy had been looking rather sullen and aggrieved ever since the second week of the term when Snape had taken twenty points from Slytherin for Draco's comments in Annwyd Gwir's class.  Malfoy was so used to having his head of house turn a blind eye to his many transgressions of etiquette, great and small, that the boy had been quite amusingly startled.  Over the intervening few weeks, he had kept a low profile in Snape's class as well as in Gwir's, confining himself to a few put-upon looks.

Now however, Draco seated himself with the self-assured grace and insolent look he had no doubt learned from his father.  He gave Snape an annoyingly smug smile.

"I trust you are well, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Quite well, Professor."  The smile deepened and his pale eyes glinted with amusement.  

Apparently, the pleasures of a seeing a sullen and off-balance Malfoy instead of a smirkingly self-satisfied Malfoy were now over.

"What can I do for you?" said Snape neutrally.

 "I spent the weekend visiting my parents," he volunteered.

_How very thrilling_.  "I hope you extended my greetings to your father."

"Oh, yes.  We had a chat about you."

"Indeed."

"Yes, Professor.  And my father asked me to give you this note."  

Draco withdrew a bit of creamy ivory parchment, folded and stamped with the Malfoy seal.

Snape reached across the desk and took it, then laid it aside on a stack of other papers.  He had no intention of opening it while Draco sat and watched.

"I'm sorry for what I said to Instructor Gwir."  He looked not at all sorry, quite the reverse.  "Father explained what you're doing.  I understand now why you had to take points from Slytherin."

_Ah, that would account for the cavalier demeanor.  _

Of _course_ Snape hadn't deducted points because Malfoy was an insufferable little git.  It had only been part of a charade—a charade to which Draco was now privy—and so the proper order was restored to the Malfoy world.  Snape stifled a sudden feeling of deep disgust.

"Then I trust you will not hinder my efforts in the future by causing Miss Gwir undue distress."

Draco gestured at the connecting door to Gwir's office and asked, in a conspiratorial whisper, "Is she in there?"

Truly, thought Snape, the boy is an idiot.  If she had been in her office, the whisper would be a tad belated.

He shook his head.

"Do you really think," Draco asked, his eyes gleaming eagerly, "that she's going to be useful to _You-Know-Who_?"

Snape allowed himself a slight sigh.  "Discretion is a virtue, even in private, when we are at Hogwarts.  But as to your question, what do _you_ think?"

Draco seemed to consider it.  "I guess some of her tricks _could_ be valuable."

_Your insight is stunning. _

"On that point, our friends are in agreement."

There was a pause.  Snape pointedly picked up his quill again.  

It took several seconds, but Draco caught the hint.

"Well, I suppose I'll go get ready for dinner."

"Very good, Mr. Malfoy.  I will see you in class tomorrow."

Draco ran a hand through his sleek blonde hair and gave Snape what he probably thought was a cloak-and-dagger smile.  Then, thankfully, he vacated the office.

Once the boy was gone, Snape considered the folded parchment.  

Clearly, Lucius could have sent a message by owl or floo, but he had chosen to have it delivered by Draco instead.  That was no doubt a message in itself.  _Charade or no, don't forget whose son you're dealing with_.  Also, it neatly provided a chance to let Draco prove himself in-the-know.  

Lucius Malfoy might feel free to insult his son, and his wife Narcissa, when the mood struck him, but everyone _else_ had best remember that they were superior creatures.  Not that Lucius was exactly fond of his family, but they were his, and he therefore cultivated a sense of proprietary pride in their dubious merits.  Treating the wife or son with less than due respect was quite the unforgivable affront, rather akin to insulting his taste in clothing.  

_Well_, mused Snape, _perhaps not _that_ unforgivable, but almost.  _

He eyed the parchment wearily, then broke the seal and read it.

Though the paper was thick and expensive and the handwriting large and elegant, the words themselves were as brief and to the point as discretion allowed.

_Dear Severus,_

_If it is at all convenient, perhaps you could join me for a drink before dinner this evening.  There is business we need to discuss concerning the interests of a mutual friend.  I will be at home after __five o'clock__._

_L. M._

It was now ten minutes after five.  He wondered if Lucius had instructed Draco to deliver the note at just this time, giving him as little notice as possible.  Probably.  Malfoy certainly couldn't rival the Dark Mark's summons, but he had his own small ways of making invitations uncomfortable.

For a moment, Snape considered postponing the visit until another day.  He could always plead a prior engagement, perhaps with Dumbledore.  Really, he thought, that might be for the best.  He was tired and tense and if, as he suspected, this meeting had anything to do with Annwyd Gwir, he was going to have to lie more than usual.  He would have preferred to do so in a better state of nerves.  Lucius might not be possessed of a brilliant mind, but he was clever enough—far more clever than Draco was ever likely to be—and undoubtedly cunning enough to be dangerous.

On the other hand, having the meeting hanging over his head wasn't likely to improve his state of mind.  There was much to be said for getting it out of the way.  Quite likely Lucius had nothing important to say and was simply being nosy, keeping himself in the loop.  If, however, he did have some information to share, it would be as well to learn it as soon as possible.  

He slipped the note and into his pocket and picked up his wand.  There was a largely unused fireplace on the wall behind his desk, and he quickly conjured a fire and threw in a handful of powder from a small stone jar on the mantel.  The flames turned bright green instantly and he stepped into the hearth, muttered his destination, and disappeared.

~*~

Snape stepped out of the hearth in Malfoy's parlor.  Lucius was reclining in a tastefully upholstered wingback chair, sipping a drink.  There was a decanter and another glass on the table beside him.  Clearly Snape was expected.

"Ah, Severus, so pleased that you could make it on such short notice."  Malfoy's voice, however, managed to convey that he'd had no doubts that Snape would make it.  "Do have a seat."

Snape merely nodded.  Brushing a bit of soot from his sleeve, he settled himself in the other wingback chair and accepted the drink that Malfoy had poured for him.  He sat silently for a moment, taking in his surroundings.

He had been here any number of times before, but he was always struck by the perfection of the room's effect.  Every expanse of gleaming wood, every portrait in its gilt frame, every well-placed _objet d'art_—it all whispered of wealth and power and good breeding.  

His host, of course, fit perfectly against such a tableau.  Dressed in fashionably cut midnight-blue robes that revealed a glimpse of pearl-grey silk at his cuffs and collar, Malfoy looked every inch the aristocrat.  

Snape raised his glass in a wry half-toast and took a sip.  He was well aware that his own appearance was ill-suited for the environment.  His clothes were sufficiently well-made, but functional and unadorned.  He looked, he supposed, like an old crow which had alighted in a garden of songbirds and roses.

"You're looking well, Lucius."  He had long ago perfected the art of flattering Malfoy in a slightly mocking tone which noted the aristocratic trappings and simultaneously dismissed them as irrelevant.  If Lucius thought for an instant that Snape was impressed by such things, he would fall several notches in Malfoy's estimation.  There were plenty of others—Nott, Parkinson, and Macnair, to name a few—who aspired to match Malfoy's air of elegance.  They would never succeed, however, and it condemned them to be eternal imitators and inferiors.  

There was exactly one thing that his host respected, and that was well-backed confidence.  _Why do I need fine clothes and expensive baubles?  My powers are elsewhere.  _Snape worked a slight twist of derision into his smile.  

_And don't forget that the Snapes were a fine, established wizarding family centuries before anyone ever heard the name of Malfoy._  If there was one thing that Lucius valued more than wealth and taste, it was pedigree.  It didn't matter that it meant nothing to Snape.  It was a suitable thought to dwell on in Lucius' parlor.

"And you, I'm afraid, are looking rather overworked, my friend," said Malfoy, his voice sympathetic but his eyes amused.  It was the expected counter-thrust in the subtle fencing match.  Work, in the world according to Malfoy, was a rather shameful way to occupy one's time, and the unspoken message was clear—_such a fine old family, yes, but how far the Snapes have fallen._

"I am certainly busy enough between doing my own research and looking after the interests of Dumbledore _and_ Lord Voldemort."  _I work because I want to.  I enjoy my research.  And I am in the confidence of _both_ leaders in this war of powers, while you have access to only one. _

"No doubt," said Malfoy dryly, acknowledging a point scored.  He recognized the value of Snape's position.  "But the responsibilities must get rather draining, on top of dealing with students and grading and so on."  _Let's not forget that a large part of your work is sheer drudgery._

Snape shrugged indifferently.  "I have an assistant who does most of the grading"—_a bit of it anyway_—"and the students rarely infringe on my time outside of class.  I manage to discourage them seeking me out."  He took another small sip of his drink.

"Yes," Lucius chuckled, "you've always had a knack for making yourself unpleasant when it suits you."  _And when it doesn't suit you also.__  Which is why you'll always work behind the scenes and never win open admiration or influence._

"Your son did pay me a visit today though."  Though he generally disliked stating the obvious, Snape was impatient with the so-called niceties and was hoping to circle towards the purpose of the invitation.

"So I assumed," said Malfoy, ignoring the hint.  "I trust his studies are going well?"

"Well enough.  He could apply himself more diligently."  He couldn't bring himself to compliment Draco's academic progress, such as it was.

"Yes, yes.  But boys will be boys."  _What do I care if he's a scholar?  He's a Malfoy_.  "I remember being rather, hmm, easily distracted myself when I was his age."  _As you no doubt remember, I was adding every girl in Slytherin to my list of conquests while you holed up in that dreadful potions lab._

Snape made another effort to push the conversation towards something of relevance.  "I fear that Draco was rather taken aback when I deducted points from Slytherin for his behavior with the Glamour Caster." 

Malfoy laughed.  "To hear Draco tell it, it sounds as if you've opted to play the gallant with the little instructor—rushing to the aid of the damsel in distress, besieged by her unruly students."  He drained the last of his whiskey and poured another, grey eyes glinting with cool amusement.

Snape took a rather larger sip of his own drink than he'd intended.  "Something like that."

"I found it an entertaining image, Severus.  I've never quite pictured you as chivalrous."

He tried to make his tone lightly ironic.  "Well, there are many roles to be played in the line of duty.  You're aware, of course, of Lord Voldemort's interest in Miss Gwir."

"Yes," said Lucius in a lazy drawl.  "We've…discussed it."  

There was a clear hint that this discussion was one that would interest Snape.  Perhaps, he reflected, Malfoy really does know something significant.

Lucius, having dropped his hint, now sat back to let Snape wonder for a while, daring him to ask about the discussion.  Snape, however, knew better than that.  If he showed little interest, Malfoy would get to the point sooner.  If he acted overtly curious, Malfoy might still tell him eventually, but he would draw it out three times longer, dangling the tidbit of knowledge teasingly in front of his listener without actually revealing it for as long as possible.

So instead of asking, he picked up a small bronze statuette from the table beside him and examined it briefly, feigning interest.  "A new acquisition?"

"Somewhat new.  Narcissa bought it in Paris last spring."  He sounded mildly disappointed that Snape hadn't taken the bait.  "Draco says the Glamour Casting Instructor is rather young.  Surprisingly young."

"Yes, I believe she is."

Lucius smirked.  "You 'believe' she is?  You haven't managed to look at her during your classroom observations?"

"Early twenties or so," said Snape, a bit more snappishly than he intended.

"Alas," said Malfoy, "no such luck when we were students, hmm?  Back then Dumbledore always seemed determined to only hire female teachers who were ancient or hideous.  Such a pity.  At sixteen, I rather fancied the idea of an older woman, but there were no such opportunities."  His eyes misted nostalgically.  "Not at Hogwarts anyway."

Snape sincerely hoped that he was not about to hear a recounting of Malfoy's quest for older women outside Hogwarts.  He had, over the years, heard more than enough of the other man's continuing carnal adventures.  Thankfully, Lucius seemed content to savor his youthful conquests in silence.  Snape took another drink of his whiskey.

"She's pretty then, is she?" said Malfoy.

"Not especially."

"Oh?  Unattractive?"

"She's rather unremarkably average," Snape said irritably.  "Not that it matters."  

Lucius raised his eyebrows.  "True, true.  The plain ones are often the most amusing.  Not jaded by an overabundance of male attention, hmm?"

"Lucius," he said, scowling, "Lord Voldemort has asked me to enlist the woman's aid, not seduce her."

"Well, Severus, the two are hardly mutually exclusive.  When Draco mentioned that you were defending her honor in class, so to speak, I thought you might have decided to do the thing with style."  

Snape hoped he didn't look as tense as he felt.  Malfoy's powers of observation might not be as carefully trained as his own, but the man had a talent for sniffing out and seizing upon whatever topics made him most uncomfortable.

Malfoy, smiling innocently, picked up the decanter of whiskey.  "Another drink?"

Snape realized his glass was nearly empty and handed it over.  It had been a mistake to accept the invitation, he concluded.  He was too tired for this.  No doubt Lucius was taking note of the fact that he had just finished his whiskey in record time—he did not like to become drunk and was usually adept at sipping from a single drink for hours—but he accepted the glass and took another swallow.  Perhaps the alcohol would ease some of the tension in his shoulders.  He was having trouble maintaining a relaxed posture, and Malfoy would certainly notice that as well.

"I received a summons from Lord Voldemort last night," said Lucius casually, twirling his own glass in his hand lazily.

"Hmm."  

"Yes, he asked me to speak with you.  He was en route to an important meeting, it seems, and he didn't feel inclined to wait while you disentangled yourself from Hogwarts.  He asked me to convey his fondest regards, of course."

Malfoy smiled and Snape suppressed a slight shiver.

"Well?"

"I don't know exactly what his errand was.  Something to do with the Dementors.  More than that, he didn't say."

"Not unexpected," said Snape.  The fact the Mulciber and Travers were out of Azkaban, looking hardly worse for the wear—and that no one in the Ministry of Magic seemed the wiser—made it obvious that Voldemort had been dealing with the prison's unsavory guards.  Dumbledore had predicted months ago that this would happen.  Still, it was good to have the speculation reconfirmed.

Snape assumed a air of indifference—only slightly strained—as he waited to hear the news that concerned himself.

"It seems," said Malfoy, when he saw that no questions were forthcoming, "that Voldemort is inclined to agree with your assessment of the Glamour Caster.  He thinks she may indeed turn out to be useful."

"I gathered as much from our last meeting."

"In fact…" Malfoy drew out the pause as long as possible.  Snape refused to show impatience.  Really, the man was shameless in his enjoyment of showing off—showing off his wealth, showing off his little bits of knowledge.  Finally, though, Lucius continued.  "He seems to have a particular use for her in mind."

That did manage to draw a look of curiosity.  Snape kept it to a glance and an arched eyebrow, but Lucius looked slightly gratified.

"Yes, it seems that there is a magical object of some importance that Voldemort wishes to acquire."  Another pause.  "He wouldn't say what it is," he added with a trace of disappointment.  "But he seems to think it rather valuable."

"No doubt," said Snape dryly, "that's why he wouldn't say what it is."  There was little that could be called _trust_ between Voldemort and his Death Eaters—there was only an intricate  balance of fear and power and mutual usefulness.  

"Yes," said Lucius, with an almost comically world-weary sigh.  "So little good faith in the world these days.  At any rate, it appears that there will be a chance to acquire the object in question shortly after the New Year.  No doubt it will be carefully guarded—perhaps at Gringott's—but Lord Voldemort believes it can be taken.  He seems to think that the Glamour Caster can help."

"I imagine she can," said Snape.  Voldemort would obviously see that the woman's talents were well suited to such an enterprise.

"I fear, however," said Malfoy, his voice now heavy with false sympathy, "that Lord Voldemort entertains some doubts about your ability to secure her cooperation."

Snape took another sip of the whiskey and forced down the knot of tension that tried to form in his stomach.  "He expressed no such doubts to me, Lucius."

Malfoy ignored his comment and proceeded.  "He seems to be planning suitable alternatives.  Just in case."

This time Snape couldn't resist a question.  "What sort of _alternatives_?"

Predictably, Lucius deferred the answer.  "I felt, however, that he ought to give you a decent chance to accomplish the goal yourself.  We're old friends, Severus, so I naturally felt obliged to take your part."

Snape made a noncommittal sound.  Whatever motives Malfoy might have, honoring the bonds of 'friendship' was certainly not among them.

"And besides, I had just spoken with Draco, and the situation seemed to be proceeding rather amusingly."  

Was that the whole of Malfoy's interest?  Snape wouldn't entirely put it past him.  He had the typical aristocrat's thirst for scandal and entertainment.  But there might be more to it as well.

"I'm glad you think so."

"Really, Severus, you take too little pleasure in your work.  You weren't always quite so boringly proper.  But perhaps that's changing, hmm?"  Malfoy took a drink, giving Snape a questioning look over the edge of the glass.   "Why look at you"—he gestured towards the half-empty glass in Snape's hand—"you're actually drinking like a normal man for once, rather than sipping like a nervous virgin on a first date."

_Confidence_, thought Snape, _is the only card to play_.  He drained the glass in one swallow and refilled it from the decanter with a flourish, then fixed Malfoy with a wicked smile.  "Times are changing, Lucius, are they not?" he said softly.  "We have all laid low these past thirteen years.  But Voldemort has returned.  The possibilities now expand for all of us."

Malfoy gave a genuine smile of approval and raised his glass.  "A toast then, to the expanded possibilities."

They drank.

"Really," said Malfoy, "I think it would be a shame if Voldemort sent Mulciber to look after the Glamour Caster.  His use of the Imperius Curse has always been rather artless and heavy-handed, don't you agree?"

"Yes, I've always thought so," said Snape.  He was suddenly glad of the alcohol in his system.  His voice sounded casual and completely steady.

~*~

When Snape finally stepped out of the fireplace into his own sitting room and library, it was still fairly early in the evening.  His talk with Lucius had seemed to last forever, but in reality he had been gone for slightly less than two hours.  

He had no desire to attend supper in the Great Hall, so he summoned a house elf and had a tray brought to his rooms instead.  

While picking at the food, he attempted to read a chapter of _Poisons and Antidotes: A New Approach, _which had recently been delivered from Flourish & Blotts.  Neither the meal nor the book, however, succeeded in holding his attention.

Every bit of tension he had been suppressing during the interminable visit with Malfoy seemed to be returning with a vengeance.  He simply couldn't keep his mind on the page in front of him.   There were too many distracting thoughts circling the edges of his awareness.  Plus, he conceded, he was probably slightly drunk.

_Damn Lucius Malfoy all to hell.  Damn him and his whiskey and his smugness and his insufferably arrogant son and his absurdly rich clothes and his tawdry little bronze statuettes. And his endless questions about the Glamour Caster._

After their initial exchanges, Lucius had produced no further information, though he continued to hint, of course, that he might have some secret up his sleeve.  Mostly, he had bored his guest with various anecdotes about his travels, his servants, his tailors, and his friends in the Ministry of Magic.  All of that nonsense was par for the course with Lucius.  

In the midst of this trivia, however, he had circled relentlessly back to Annwyd Gwir.  Some of Malfoy's questions were arguably relevant—Where was she from?  Was it true that she knew very little regular magic?—but most were completely gratuitous—What color was her hair?  Was she tall or petite?  Slim or voluptuous?—all matters Snape would have preferred not to dwell on.

Worst of all, though, were the many nettling remarks about Voldemort's "alternatives."  Lucius _did_ wish Snape the best of luck with his endeavor, such a _pity_ if Mulciber had to step in, and so on and so on, _ad_ _nauseum_.  

Mulciber stepping in would be far more than a pity, thought Snape.  It simply mustn't be allowed to happen.  The fact that Voldemort was considering it was grim news in and of itself.  Not only did it betray a lack of confidence in Snape, it also indicated all too plainly what the Dark Lord thought of the Glamour Caster.  A useful tool, perhaps, but quite expendable.

Mulciber was infamous for his use of the Imperius Curse, and the reputation was not undeserved.  He was very good at getting the results he wanted out of his victims, even if those victims were strong witches or wizards who had been specially trained to resist the curse.   Bludgeoning his commands past all walls of resistance was his specialty.  Unfortunately, the victims' minds were often bludgeoned out of commission in the process.  Their usefulness was generally short-lived.  

Snape doubted that Annwyd Gwir had any defensive training against _Imperio_, and even if she did, her chances of surviving an encounter with Mulciber with her faculties in tact were slim at best.  And once Voldemort chose to go that route, no one would care if the instructor survived or not.  Indeed, if she had to be strong-armed into performing her task, she would only be a liability afterwards.  If she was lucky, the Killing Curse would follow immediately once the job was done.  If she was unlucky, she would be the guest of honor at a Death Eater gathering in between _Imperio_ and _Avada Kedavra_.  

He tried to focus on the rapidly cooling supper tray in front of him and realized he'd been rearranging his food for some time without eating it.  The slice of roast beef was untouched, but the serving of buttered peas had been neatly squared off and the cubes of boiled red-skinned potatoes were now lined up in rows according to size.  He gave a disgusted grunt and speared a chunk of potato with his fork.  

The fork was halfway to his mouth when he was visited with a sudden flash from his visit to Mulciber's dungeon.  He saw the dark-haired girl kneeling beside Travers' chair and suddenly imagined Annwyd Gwir in her place.  He slammed the fork onto the tray and shoved his chair back from the table.  He was not inclined to eat after all.

He left the tray on the work table, not wanting to be disturbed by a house elf, and paced about the room, pausing in front of the bookcases, running his eyes over the familiar titles of his collection. _Properties of Common Fungi.__  Healing Potions - Ancient and Modern.  Magical Plants of the __Far East__.__  Fundamentals of Temperature and Precision.  A Guide to Preserving Insects.  The Subtle Poisons._

Ah, yes.  _The Subtle Poisons_.  That one had been an invaluable resource during his early work with Voldemort.  He turned away from the bookcase.

_"You see, Miss Gwir, I was seventeen and not very happy, so I made a pair of potions for Lord Voldemort to help him destroy a man I'd never met." _

But that was hardly the worst of it, Snape thought as he paced the length of the chamber.  There were other, stronger reasons for keeping his thoughts of Annwyd Gwir cold.  Because Voldemort rewarded his servants, didn't he?

_"You deserve some recreation, Severus, after your excellent work.  So you see, I've brought you a little pet to entertain you_."  

Gods, he could still see her, that first one, though most of the others had faded from his memory over the years.  Raven-haired, dark-eyed and beautiful, face exquisite, body full and ripe and perfectly formed.  And she was touched ever so lightly with _Imperio_.  Not the mindless doll that Mulciber would have created—Voldemort knew Snape better than that.  No, she was still aware and alert and vibrant.  What the Dark Lord had planted in her mind was simple, really, hardly even a set of commands, just a few unshakable beliefs. _You are his.  You are helpless to be otherwise.  React however you will.  Feel whatever pleasure or pain is given you.  Struggle or submit as you wish.  But the power is all his and not yours._   

The Dark Lord had known his servants well, their strengths and weaknesses.  At seventeen, Severus had intelligence and ambition and he had, even then, the capacity for single-minded focus.  It was an age when most boys found it difficult to concentrate on books.  As the young human animal developed towards adulthood and the internal machinery flooded the system with hormones and desires, it was hard to spend solitary hours with quill and scroll. It was hard to listen to droning old professors when yesterday's unremarkable female classmates had suddenly become young sirens.  Many abandoned whatever scholarly drive they had possessed and did as little work as possible, saving their time and energy to better impress the newly entrancing opposite sex.  

Severus, however, had not followed suit.

In retrospect, he could acknowledge that the explanation was simple: none of those pretty things spared him a passing glance.  If his family was old and well-bred enough to make him acceptable, they were hardly rich enough to make him a catch.  He was skinny and unathletic and clumsy at the social graces.  His hair was always lank and a little unkempt, his roes always dusty from the Potions lab.  He was short-tempered and somber even when he didn't intend to be.  If a girl ever noticed him at all, it was only to say _"Severus, what are you scowling about now?" when he hadn't even realized he was scowling.  And his humor even then had been dry and intellectual—never the sly, easy jokes and teasing innuendo that made teenage girls blush and giggle—so of course it was assumed that he lacked a sense of humor all together._

Lucius Malfoy was ever surrounded by a bevy of Slytherin girls, posing and pouting in hopes of catching his notice.  James Potter moved in the warm glow of Lily Evans' adoring green-eyed gaze, and if Lily should ever look the other way, there were other girls lined up to fawn on the Quidditch hero.  Sirius Black's high spirits and reckless sense of adventure occasioned playful scolding and not-so-secret admiration.  Even Remus Lupin—who was a _werewolf_, for gods' sake—was known to draw a doe-eyed glance from the shy and bookish types.    

And now, years later, Snape could admit that he would have gladly traded places with any of them.  But at the time he was convinced—_had_ to be convinced—of his own higher callings.  He was destined for better things, more important things, than roaming the halls in a circle of laughing friends and snogging silly girls behind the greenhouse.

His body, of course, had remained rather dubious as to the value of his mind's more lofty ideals.  But even that had been swept up in ambition.  The aching hardness of unspent desire could be mastered.  The pent-up energies of frustration could be rechanneled into other—higher—_worthier—_pursuits.  And some day—

Some day, he would achieve greatness while the others would remain mediocrities.

No doubt the Dark Lord had suspected all of it.  He hadn't bothered to explain what commands he had given the girl, hadn't needed to say anything at all.  Snape had felt it the instant his eyes fastened on hers.  She was beautiful, she was perfect, and she was his.  His to enjoy in whatever way he wanted—the rightful earnings of his hard-won success, the wages due his brilliance and achievement.  If he wanted to make her suffer for every jibe and cruelty of the others, he could do that.  If he wanted to make her moan with desire and beg for his caresses, he could do that too.  And he had.  He had done both, and more.  

Yes, thought Snape, the reward had gone down sweet.  As sweet as the second potion he'd created for Voldemort's reluctant informant.  As sweet and as wildly exhilarating—the girl's soft flesh under his hands and her damaged will open to his command, the pleasure and the power intertwined, the freedom to use her as he saw fit, to please her or make her crawl.

A fair bargain, in retrospect, Snape thought bitterly. An even exchange, the potions for the girl.  

He supposed that once he had wanted things that other men wanted.  Companionship.  Laughter.  Affection.  Trust.  But those things had paled beside the intoxication of power.  Maybe it was a side effect of taking the Dark Mark, which was burned onto his arm soon afterwards.  Maybe it was a subtle influence of the Unforgivable Curses, because of course he'd quickly learned to perform _Imperio_ himself.  Maybe it was just the wretchedness of human nature.  But whatever the cause, with each new "reward"—with each new indulgence in that heady wine—everything else receded farther and farther into the distance.  

It wasn't guilt that had moved him to curb those indulgences.  The guilt had only come much later.  It was the hollowness of his so-called power that was finally revealed when he felt the jaws of the trap closing around him, the same trap that closed on every servant of the Dark Lord.  It wasn't quite as ruthless as the prison he'd made for the Ministry informant, but the principle was nonetheless the same.  Step out of the circle of Dark wizards and where will you ever satisfy the craving?  Who in the world, besides your fellow Death Eaters and your Master, will approve of the pleasures you require?

And so he had stopped, accepted no more rewards, and believed he'd won.  

Perhaps he had, but the victory was bitter.  For a while he'd believed that the other world—the one where normal people lived and loved and were sometimes happy—might still be there waiting for him to return to it.  But as the months and then the years rolled by, he realized that the other world would always remain at a distance, a foreign country whose customs he heard about but one which he would never personally visit.  

Prowling about his library in the grip of these unwelcome thoughts, Snape considered taking a draught of Dreamless Sleep.  Since Voldemort was occupied and had chosen to deliver his latest message through Lucius Malfoy, it was highly unlikely that he'd issue a summons soon.  And the gods knew a night of dreamless sleep would be more than welcome.  

Unfortunately, as he remembered a second later, he had consumed three—four?—glasses of whiskey in Malfoy's drawing room, and sleeping potions did not mix well with alcohol.  Even a small dose would make him ill.

After a moment's consideration, he opened a cabinet and removed a rather dusty bottle of whiskey.  He was already likely to wake up with a headache, but perhaps one more drink would push him from agitation to dullness and, with any luck at all, sleep.

He had to search for a while to find a glass.  He drank alone very infrequently and entertained guests even more rarely.  The glass was also dusty and he pulled his shirttail loose to wipe it off.  Then he filled the glass and downed it in two swallows.  

A moment later, he knew the whiskey had been a mistake.  His pulse seemed to pound against his eardrums and his thoughts spun even faster than before.  With a grimace, he flung the glass at the empty fireplace where it shattered, raining fragments onto the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

****

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**Chapter 8**

It was shortly before the supper hour on the second Monday in October, and Annwyd was meandering through the almost leafless garden, indulging herself in a bout of self-pity—well-deserved self-pity, in her opinion.  The last several days has been trying, to say the least.

To begin with, her students were giving her trouble.  During the first month, when she had focused on providing demonstrations and explaining the history of her arts, she had kept their attention with surprising ease.  When she had announced that they were about to begin the first of their practical lessons, there had been a gratifying show of enthusiasm.  Most of that enthusiasm had dimmed quickly, however, when they realized that learning to cast a glamour was not as simple as learning to cast a spell.  

The practical lessons started with breathing exercises that had to be practiced on a daily basis.  She tried to explain that these were essential for sensing the subtle energies, but clearly the students found them boring.  There were also mixed reactions to the observation assignments, which required them to silently attend to an object, plant, or animal for an entire hour and then record every sensory detail and emotional impression they could recall.  

"_Our goal is to paint a picture in the mind," _she had tried to explain_, "and before you can learn how to paint, you have to learn how to see."  _But most of the students, in spite of her explanations, were giving her impatient and dubious looks.  They wanted something simple—a formula to follow or an incantation to remember—not the long, slow process of retraining the mind.

She wanted to ask Dumbledore for his input on the situation, but he and Flitwick had been away for several days on mysterious errands, and on his return the headmaster seemed so busy that she hated to bother him.  

During the early part of the previous week, she had practically counted down the hours until her scheduled lunch with Lupin on Thursday.  She hoped that he might provide some helpful suggestions for handling her classes, and, at any rate, it would be a relief to see a friendly face rather than the disgruntled looks that met her in the classroom.  But on Wednesday she'd received a brief note canceling their plans.  The note had been courteous enough—he claimed that he had mistaken the date and thus had neglected to account for another engagement—but she couldn't keep from wondering if he was still offended about whatever had gone wrong at their last visit.  

She had spent a lonely Thursday evening wandering the grounds and gardens, avoiding the castle halls until the full moon was high overhead and it was finally too cold to linger out of doors, even wrapped tightly in her cloak.  She hadn't seen Lupin at all on Friday, or during the weekend, and when she passed him this morning on her way to class, his smile had seemed forced.  So apparently her blunder, whatever it was, was not forgiven.

And finally, Professor Snape had been worse than useless.  For one thing, he seemed unable to understand why she would care if her students enjoyed their lessons.  Remembering her own miserable days in the Potions classroom, she supposed that should hardly be surprising.  She hadn't really expected any help from Snape on that score.  

But beyond that, his demeanor towards her was rapidly wearing thin.  For days now, he had been intermittently edgy and icy cold, and in either mood he spoke even less than usual.  This afternoon she had finally asked him whether there was something he needed to tell her, only to be curtly dismissed till an unspecified "later."  

Only a week ago, she was wondering if—perhaps—there might be a bit of hidden warmth in his eyes now and then.  Well, that must have been a flight of imagination, because the look he gave her today could have made a glacier look warm by comparison.

She left the gardens and began a slow circle of the castle.  As she neared the complex of greenhouses, she saw Professor Sprout emerging from number 4.  For a moment, she considering retreating out of sight.  She was not likely to be good company at the moment.  But then she reconsidered.  Maybe a good dose of the down-to-earth Herbologist would cheer her up and settle her wayward thoughts.

"Professor Sprout!" she called out to the little grey-haired witch.  

Sprout looked around for a moment trying to locate the voice, then saw Annwyd emerging into the light of the building.

"Annwyd, my dear, how are you?" said Sprout.  

As usual, Annwyd felt a pleasant bustle of energy from the older woman.  Her worried mind relaxed just a little and she managed a smile that wasn't entirely false.  "Fine, Professor.  A bit chilly now that the sun's gone.  But I'm fine.  And yourself?"

"Can't complain, can't complain.  Busy as always, of course."  She locked and warded the greenhouse door behind her.

"Would you care to join me for dinner?" asked Annwyd hopefully.  Yes, an evening in Sprout's solid aura might be exactly what the doctor ordered.    

"I'd love to dear, but Clarice and I have some things to go over…."  She shook her head.  "Never a free moment these days.  I'll have you round for tea next week though!  I'll send you a note as soon as I figure out when I'll have an afternoon off."

Annwyd gave a resigned smile.  "That would be lovely."

Sprout had been promising to invite her round for tea every week since her arrival, but the free afternoon and the invitation never seemed to materialize.  Well, she consoled herself, it wasn't anything personal.  She could tell that Sprout was sincere every time she made the offer.  She was simply, as she claimed, terribly busy.

"Things are going well for you I hope?  Students not giving you too much trouble?"

"No," said Annwyd.  "The students are good—most of the time anyway."

"Good, good.  Wonderful, dear," said Sprout rather distractedly.  Annwyd could tell her mind was already elsewhere.  Probably with the latest crop of mandrakes or the new Indian Tiger-Leaf trees.

Annwyd was about to say goodnight and leave Sprout to her own concerns when something occurred to her.  "Professor Sprout, can I ask you a question?  Do you know Professor Lupin very well?"

"Hmmm?" said Sprout.  It took her wandering attention a second or two to return.  "Lupin?  No, not especially well.  He seems like a very decent young man, and I know he's a good teacher—the students simply rave about his classes—but our fields don't overlap much.  Why do you ask?"

"Well, do you happen to know if he has, um, something against wolves?"  Now that she said it, the question sounded mildly ridiculous.

Perhaps Sprout thought so too, because she echoed in an odd voice: "Something against _wolves_?  Did you ask if he has something against _wolves_?"

"Yes," said Annwyd, wishing now that she hadn't brought it up.  She briefly explained her grandfather's habit of using animal names, and then described Lupin's reaction at their last lunch.  "I feel like I must have offended him, but I'd have thought he'd find it amusing."

Sprout was now giving her a disapproving look.  "Well, dear, under the circumstances, it wasn't very tactful, was it?"

Annwyd knew her face must be completely blank.  _What circumstances_? 

"Do you mean that you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Oh my," said the Herbologist, shaking her head.  "I thought all the faculty knew.  And most of the students by now, I daresay, after Snape 'accidentally' opened his mouth the last time Professor Lupin was here."  

"Professor Sprout," said Annwyd carefully, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I just assumed Dumbledore had told you.  He told the other teachers when Remus was hired the first time.  But I suppose it slipped his mind.  He's even busier than the rest of us, of course, so it's not surprising.  Can't imagine how he stays on top of all the things he does."

"_What_ slipped his mind?" asked Annwyd, starting to grow impatient.

"Professor Lupin's a _werewolf_, dear.  Has been since he was a child.  Terrible shame for him of course, but he manages well enough."

_A werewolf_?  She could think of absolutely nothing to say.  Though after a second, she did manage to close her mouth when she realized she was gaping like an idiot.

"Bitten when he was just a boy," continued Sprout.  "Very hard on him when he was a student here.  Never would have made it through his studies if Dumbledore hadn't taken such pains to look after him."

The plump little witch delivered this information much as if Lupin had been afflicted with a particularly prolonged bout of childhood measles rather than turning into a homicidal monster once a month.

"It's much better for him now with the new potion," she added.  "Doesn't have to be locked up anymore.  I will say that for Severus—the man can whip up any potion you like in that dungeon of his.  And it's lucky for Lupin that Snape's here.  Not many Potions Masters could do it."

"Yes," said Annwyd weakly.  "That's lucky."

"Oh goodness," exclaimed Sprout, looking at the little clock that hung from a chain around her neck, "Clarice must be wondering where I've gotten off to."

Annwyd nodded, not really listening.

"Have a good night, dear!  And we'll have tea soon, I promise!"

Sprout bustled off towards the castle entrance nearest the Hufflepuff quarters, patting down her fly-away hair as she went.  After a moment, Annwyd made her own way back to the building.

~*~

By the time she reached her rooms, Annwyd was no longer stunned.  She was angry.  In fact, she was downright furious.  Her temper ignited only rarely, but when it did, she was as caught in its grip as a five-year-old having a tantrum.  She stomped into her chambers, slammed the door behind her, and could barely resist the urge to find something to hurl against the wall.

Her one friend at Hogwarts was a werewolf.  And no one—not Dumbledore, not Snape, and not Lupin—could be bothered to say a word about it.

She stormed into the bedroom and kicked off her shoes.  She yanked off the robes and her dress and flung them onto the bed.  

Gods, she felt like such an _idiot_.  No wonder Lupin had been upset!  The wolf remark was—how had Sprout described it?  _Not very tactful_?  That was a bloody understatement.  But how in seven hells was she supposed to have known that?

She yanked off her bra and panties, pulled on a loose nightshirt, and stomped back into the sitting room.

It wouldn't have been so bad if it was a secret.  She knew what it was like to have those.  But it _wasn't_ a secret—everyone at Hogwarts seemed to know, even the students.  Everyone but her.

Her eye fell on her disused wand resting atop a bookcase.  She wished she knew some spell for blasting holes in the wall—not glamoured holes but real ones.  Big ones.

She stomped back into the bedroom, where there was also no suitable vent for her anger, and then back to the sitting room again.

All right, it had slipped Dumbledore's mind.  Fair enough.  But what about Snape?  _He_ could have told her.  In fact, he'd found a number of occasions to make snide remarks about Lupin ever since he'd noticed them becoming friends.  And, in retrospect, those remarks were always accompanied by a malicious little glint of amusement, the source of which was now abundantly clear.  Apparently he was laughing at her for being in the dark, the smug bastard.

She continued to pace back and forth from sitting room to bedroom.

Maybe Lupin had been right about Snape's nasty streak.  But that brought on another wave of anger.   How dare Lupin lecture her about who to trust?  Obviously she couldn't trust _him_.  Or, worse still, he didn't trust her.  Trusted everyone _else_ with the truth, but not Annwyd.

Finally, she flung herself into an armchair, irritated with her own pointless pacing.  

_Maybe Lupin thought you already knew,_ said the small not-angry part of her mind.  

But no, that didn't make sense.  Even if he had thought that before, the incident at lunch last week should have made things clear.  Surely he didn't think she'd say something so tasteless if she knew?  Was his opinion of her really that low?

There was a rap at the door and she jumped at the sound.

Annwyd heaved herself out of the chair and stalked into the front room.  "_Who is it_?" she barked at the door, half-wishing that whoever it was would go away and leave her to fume, half-wishing it would be someone she could give a piece of her mind to.

"Dinner, miss," a voice squeaked from the other side of the door.

She jerked the door open and glared at the house elf, who cowered back with the dinner tray, bobbing her pointy-eared head.  

"Lolly is sorry to bother you, Miss.  But Lolly is thinking that Miss will want to eat since Miss is not appearing in the Hall for dinner."

"Put it on the table," she snapped.

The elf bobbed nervously into the room.

"If Miss is needing anything—"

"No, nothing. Just leave it and go."  _Gods, I sound like my mother_. 

She was normally fond of Lolly, but at the moment she couldn't stop the words _pointy-eared_ _pest_ from forming in her mind in a nasty tone.

Lolly left the dinner tray on the table, gave an awkward little curtsey,  then scampered out again as quickly as possible.

The fact that it was unreasonable to snap at the little creature was not lost on Annwyd, and knowing it did nothing to improve her mood.  The sight and smell of the food on the tray was utterly unappealing.  

She went back to the sitting room and slumped in her chair, her fit of anger starting to give way—as it always quickly did—to lingering irritation mixed with gloomy self-critique.  

Most of Sprout's words had been ignored in the general shock of the revelation, but now her memory started to replay them.  

_"Terrible shame for him of course, but he manages well enough."   _

_"Bitten when he was just a boy…."_

_You might at least attempt to have some sympathy for him, _she told herself,_ instead of just thinking about yourself.  Lupin's supposed to be your friend, isn't he?_

She sighed, suddenly feeling very selfish and immature.

_"Never would have made it through his studies if Dumbledore hadn't taken such pains to look after him."_

And maybe, she admitted, that was the part that burned.  

_Selfish, selfish, selfish.___

But she couldn't help it.

She didn't know much about werewolves, but enough to know that keeping one safe at Hogwarts must have been difficult.  

_Why not me?  Why a werewolf but not a Glamour Caster?  Dumbledore let Lupin stay at Hogwarts and graduate, but he was happy enough to send _me_ packing._

Dumbledore _hadn't_ been happy about it.  She knew that.  But nonetheless, he _had_ sent her home, and the old feelings of shame and disappointment died hard.  

She shook her head, annoyed by her own self-pity.  She wished she were still just angry.  

_And really, they might have told me.  I wonder what _else _no one's bothered to mention.  Maybe the little talk that Snape keeps avoiding is leading up to the fact that he's a vampire.  _

That thought produced a grim smile, but nevertheless, she felt fretful.  

_What exactly _does_ he want to tell me? Why does it have to be discussed in private?  And why is he putting it off?_

She couldn't shake the suspicion that it was going to be something she wouldn't like.  And this vague sense of dread was—in spite of his recent coldness—mixed with a not-so-vague twinge of excitement at the prospect of talking to Snape in private.  All in all, it left her feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

_Maybe I should try to eat something.  Or take a hot bath.  Anything but sitting here worrying and moping._

But neither a bath nor dinner sounded appealing.  A moment later she was struck with another idea.  

_Maybe I should go downstairs and ask Snape now.    _

If the thing he had wanted to tell her turned out to be inconsequential, as it probably would, then she'd have no reason to worry about it further.  And if it _was_ some nasty little surprise, she might as well get it over with.  Her evening could hardly go downhill from here.

Plus, she might even find an opportunity to tell him exactly what she thought of his snide remarks and unrevealing hints concerning Lupin.  She got up and marched towards the door.

Halfway across the room, she realized she was barefoot and wearing a nightshirt, and she headed back to the bedroom impatiently.  

She pulled on a clean pair of underwear and the simple dress she had been wearing earlier, deciding to forgo the discomfort of the bra.  She hesitated for an instant as she passed the mirror.  Her breasts were too full for the absence of a bra to go unnoticed.  But to hell with it.  She was impatient to carry out her decision.  _And_, she added to herself with a touch of defiance_, if I notice him taking a look—or _not_ taking a look—that might help clear up the _other_ question._  She retrieved her shoes from the other side of the room where she had kicked them, put them on, and left her rooms, heading for the dungeons.

 ~*~

Annwyd rapped loudly on Snape's door.  

No answer.

She waited a decent interval, then knocked again.

She _knew_ Snape was there.  She could feel the sense of presence through the walls, could feel his attention fixed on the door.  In fact, she was surprised at how clear this impression was.  He was usually so damn self-contained that it was hard to tell anything about him, but at the moment she could practically see him glaring at the door from the other side.

Well, let him glare.  She wasn't going away.  And if she had caught him at a rare unguarded moment, so much the better.  Maybe she'd finally clear a few things up.  She knocked again.

The door swung open so abruptly that she had to jump back to avoid a bruise.

"_What_?" It was practically a snarl.

For a moment, neither the word nor the tone registered.  She was too busy reeling under the sudden waves of energy that blasted out of the room like waves of heat shimmering from an open furnace.  She simply stood there, no doubt gawking stupidly.

_An unguarded moment indeed_, she thought, trying to collect herself enough to speak.  She had, on a few rare occasions in the past, been aware of a little burst of feeling breaking through his defenses, but this was definitely more than a little burst.  He seemed to be entangled in some chaos of emotion that even he was having trouble concealing.  

There was a long pause. 

 "Well, what is it?" he snapped at last.  The tone was still undeniably hostile but he seemed to have reined himself in—a little.  The haze of energy still vibrated out of the room, but contracted slightly, growing tighter and denser around him. 

 "I need to talk to you."  She managed to say it firmly.

Snape scowled and ran a hand through his already much-disheveled hair.  "This is not a good time, Instructor.  If there is an emergency, then apprise me of its nature as quickly as possible, and if not, then kindly see me in my office tomorrow."  

He was reeling himself back in quickly.  She could still sense the thick web of energies surrounding him, but already it was impossible to sort out the threads.  She was both irritated and impressed.  

She said nothing in response to his demand for an explanation, still trying to read the atmosphere.  He made a derisive noise in his throat and reached forward to pull the door shut.

The movement jolted Annwyd out of her observations and she caught the edge of the door before it could close.  "You said last week there was something we had to discuss."  She stepped forward, blocking the path of the door.  "You said it was important.  I want to know what it is."

"Now is not the time to discuss it."  Snape's mouth twisted into a grimace.  "Tonight is…not a good night."

For the first time, she took a careful look at him.  For whatever reason, it _wasn't_ a good night.  There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked even paler than usual.  

"Are you unwell, Professor?" she asked, momentarily diverted from her own purposes.

He raked his hand through his hair again.  "I am…well enough.  I am not, however, in any sort of mood for conversation.  Good night."

For a second, she almost complied and backed out of the doorway.  But her own temper was still close to the surface and, dammit, she didn't care what mood he was in.

"Perhaps I should make you some tea," she said briskly.  "You look as if you could use some."

She advanced across the threshold even though he was still blocking the doorway from the inside.  If he didn't step back, she was going to walk right into him.  And, she noted with grim satisfaction, the ploy worked.  His desire to avoid physical contact won out over his wish to keep her out of the room.  He retreated a step, and then another.

"I am perfectly capable of providing my own tea, should I want it, which I do not.  I will ask you again, Miss Gwir, to kindly defer this _uninvited_ visit until another, more suitable, time."

She ignored this and proceeded further into the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

In the brighter light inside, and with Snape no longer blocking her view, Annwyd could see that something was indeed wrong.  In contrast to the austere neatness of most of the room, there was a chaotic sprawl of books and parchments on the table behind him, an uneaten meal on a tray, and, rather surprisingly, an open bottle of whiskey.  More notably, there were fragments of broken glass in front of the empty hearth, where something had been dropped or flung.  

His white linen shirt—he had obviously dispensed with the academic robes for the evening—was unbuttoned at the throat and distinctly rumpled.  There was a large blot of ink on one sleeve, and a smudge of dust or dirt on the loose shirttail—all out of character with his usual meticulous habits.  His posture was unnaturally rigid, his dark eyes had an almost feverish glitter, and there was a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead.  

Seeing her appraising look, he scowled in her direction, then paced into the room's center, putting more distance between them.  

"Professor, are you sure that you're not ill?  You look unwell."

"If you must know, I have not been sleeping well, but I will live.  If you are concerned for my health, then perhaps you will allow me the remedy I request and leave me in peace."

"From the looks of things," Annwyd said, surprised at her own boldness, "you were not exactly at peace before I arrived."

He made a noise that was, perhaps, meant to be a laugh.  

Before she could say anything else, his eyes locked on hers.  Once again she could feel the charge of energy expanding in the room.  Her own muscles suddenly felt almost as tense as his appeared to be.  

"I will repeat myself, Miss Gwir."  His voice was low and harsh.  "I am in no mood for conversation."

She could feel him—could practically _see_ him—gathering his defenses around himself.  But even as the walls went up, she sensed that they were not exerting their usual effect.  Instead of feeling pushed away, she felt pulled as if by a magnet.  She moved forward until she was less than an arm's length away from him.  

This time Snape held his ground.  

"You look feverish," she said, and her own voice sounded hoarse.  

She raised an arm and laid her hand against the side of his face.  He froze and, for just an instant, she felt the jolt of contact.  The surface of her body seemed electrified and she was minutely aware of the weight of the dress on her skin.  _Oh gods, this is _not_ good.  _The thought flashed through her mind.  _This is not why I came here…is it?_

Then Snape seized her wrist and jerked her hand away from him.

"What do you want from me, _Instructor_?"  

He held her wrist in a vise-like grip and his eyes held hers just as firmly.  Any excuses that tried to come to her lips were silenced under the force of his dark eyes.  She breathed in the sweet-musky aroma of his scent and hers, and she knew that every nerve in her face and body were betraying just exactly what she wanted.  

He smiled, but it was a very cold smile.

Still holding her trapped by the wrist, he brought his other hand to her face and his fingers trailed gently across her cheek, then traced the line of her jaw from chin to earlobe.  She let out a long, shuddering breath.  She could feel the warmth of his body next to hers, not touching her, but close enough to radiate its heat onto her skin.  

"Is this what you want from me?" His harsh voice had suddenly turned soft.  She trembled as his hand moved lightly over her hair and gasped when he drew his fingers down her neck.  Light touches again, but leaving a trail of heat under her skin.  

"Is it what you want?" he repeated in the same low voice, caressing the little hollow above her collarbone   There was something wrong in his voice, something too cold and too controlled in the silky tones, but she could feel her breasts swelling against the fabric of the dress and could feel the heat spreading down her thighs as his fingers circled that sensitive hollow of skin.  Her pulse was loud and her breath sounded ragged in her ears.  "Is it, hmmm?"  His voice was almost a whisper.  It teased her nerves just as his fingers did.  "Is this what you came here for?"

Her eyelids closed as she savored the touch.  She nodded.

The caressing hand dropped and the other hand tightened on her wrist painfully.  

"_You are in the wrong place, Miss Gwir_."  

The sudden snarl jolted her eyes open.  

"If you wish to be petted and stroked, perhaps you should visit Professor Lupin."  She flinched away from the sneer in his voice and the hard look in his eyes.  "The two of you seem to be _friendly_ enough, and no doubt he will make a suitable lapdog—except during the full moon of course."  

His hand returned to her face, but this time he grabbed her roughly and tipped her head back, forcing her to look at him.  For a long second his eyes raked over her lips and throat, then they caught her stunned gaze and held it.  

"My own tastes are rather more demanding.  I doubt you'd care for them."

He released her—flung her away—and turned his back.

Her brain reeled and her body shivered and ached, as if she had been burned and then doused with cold water.

"I suggest that you leave now, Instructor."

_ A very good idea,_ said the sensible part of her spinning, confused mind.  But the sensible part was very small at the moment.  She drew in a long breath and looked at the man in front of her, who stood rigidly facing the other direction.  She took in the lines of tension in his back and shoulders, the tightly controlled stance, the sudden twitch of his hand.  The hand jerked up and pointed at the door.

"_Go._"

_I should leave.  _

She didn't move.  The air crackled with an energy field that held her rooted in place.  It seemed to pull her forward and push her away with equal force, making it impossible to move, or breathe, or think.  

The field snapped and Snape whirled around and advanced, his eyes smoldering with what appeared to be anger.

"Since you haven't the sense to find the way on your own, I will show you out."  His hand closed on her upper arm and he yanked her towards the door.  She wanted to twist out of his grip and run, wanted to hit him, wanted to press her shivering flesh against the heat of his.

It was impossible to tell if it was his decision or hers, but one second Annwyd was being firmly propelled across the room and the next she was pivoting, crashing into his chest.  

In an instant, the entire length of her body was locked to his—her hands clutching his shoulders, his fingers seizing her hair while his other hand found the base of her spine and pulled her tight so that she gasped at the hardness of his arousal pressed against her.  A moan was trapped in her throat as his mouth covered hers, his kiss rough and demanding, stealing her breath.

The hand that had caught her hair jerked back even harder, forcing her to offer her neck and throat to his lips and teeth.  Her own hands clawed at his back and tangled in his hair, and her hips stayed locked to his even when his hands released her to pull and then tear with impatience at her dress.  She heard—as if from a great distance away—the tiny sound of a button hitting the stone floor and bouncing.  The air was cool but seemed to burn rather than chill her skin as the dress slid off one shoulder.  

His lips found hers again, hungry and insistent.   She tasted the whiskey-sharpness of his breath, felt his teeth close on her lower lip.  His hands moved urgently over her neck and shoulders, not caressing her but claiming her, making her _his_.  It was not the sweetness of pleasure that she felt under his touch but the fire of his raw, furious need overwhelming her, making the room pound with the sound of his heartbeat, making every molecule of air hang taut.

Clasping her tight, he pulled them both to the floor. He rolled onto her, trapping her under his body.  She reached for his face, his neck, needing to feel his skin.  But then he was raising himself, drawing back.  

She moaned at suddenly losing the heat and weight of him pressed against her, tried to sit up to keep the embrace.  But a hand on her shoulder held her down firmly while another hand pulled the skirts of her dress above her waist.  With a rip of lace, the panties were torn aside and for a second his hand grasped her hip possessively.

The lamplight swam and shimmered, fever-dream bright, as she watched him unfastening his trousers.  

Either he knew she was ready or he didn't care.  Already he had positioned himself against her.  It should have been too quick, too sudden, but it wasn't.  He was looking at her now with those intense black eyes, so glittering on their surface, so bottomless in their depths.  For an endless second everything was still.

She felt the desire coiled in her belly and crying in her veins, but she didn't know how close she was to climax until he entered her.  When he sheathed himself in her body in one smooth, hard stroke, the harsh growl of pleasure torn from deep in his throat was enough to send her screaming over the edge.

She didn't know how long it lasted.  There was no time, no part of her left separate to think.  There was only the relentless thrust of him—fierce and hard and deep, as if he couldn't possibly get far enough inside her—and her own body writhing and arched against him.  She had fallen from a rocky cliff down into the sea and the waves pounded over her, drowning everything but the ecstasy and the heat.   And when she might have surfaced, might have drawn a sane breath, he screamed, low and guttural, and the air exploded with his release and the waves crashed over her again.

~*~

For a long time afterwards, her mind was utterly empty.  Then, slowly, her dazed senses returned and she was aware of the cold floor pressed to her back and the weight of his body collapsed across her chest and the warmth of his face buried against her shoulder.  

Moments later, he stirred, his cheek rubbing against her neck.  After the intensity of her climax, she would have expected to be completely sated, but when he kissed her ear and filled it with a warm release of breath, her body thrilled and shivered once again.

He rolled off her, exhaled a long breath, buttoned his trousers.  Then he stood and drew her to her feet.  He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, kissed her cheek, her temple, rubbed his face against her hair.  He breathed her name into her ear.  "_Annwyd_."

She froze, gripped by a feeling she couldn't name.  She didn't help or resist as he carefully worked the ripped dress from her body.  It slithered down to fall in a pool at her feet.  She realized that her feet were bare though she didn't remember kicking off her shoes.  She didn't recall unbuttoning his shirt, but when he stepped back, she saw that it hung open, revealing the pale, taut skin over his stomach and chest.

Her gaze moved up, wanting—suddenly _needing_—to find his eyes.   But his eyes were not looking at her face.  They were traveling slowly, intensely over her body.  As if just waking from a dream, she was abruptly very aware of being naked.  The nameless feeling that had frozen her in place tightened its grip, twisting her stomach and whispering in her mind.  

She was afraid.  

Afraid because he was a wizard, not some Muggle-lad from the village.  Afraid because he was not a boy, good-hearted and clumsy, but a man who could possess her utterly and completely, who could dissolve her mind to nothing with the force of his will and desire.  Afraid because this was suddenly, terribly real and she was only herself—_Annwyd—_exposed and unglamoured—with no mask to hide the flush rising to her cheeks.

Instinctively, her arms moved up to cover her breasts.    

"No."  His voice was low and soft but commanding.

Her muscles twitched with indecision, torn between the desire to shield herself from his eyes and the need to obey that commanding voice.  

He grasped one of her arms firmly and lowered it to her side.  

"No," he repeated, his voice even lower, deadly soft.  Her other arm dropped to her side as well.

He stepped back and his eyes worked over her body.  Her own eyes closed and her fingers curled into her palms.  Her breath came fast and shallow.  Her mind squirmed in the taut darkness.  She could feel his gaze gliding slowly over her stomach and hips, could feel it probing the heat between her thighs.  She shivered as the brush of his awareness slid over her ribcage and her fingernails dug into her palms as his gaze lingered, circling, on her breasts.  Her nipples hardened for him, teased to aching attention by his stare.

The muscles in her legs were weak and trembling when suddenly the heat of his eyes vanished, leaving only the chilled air against her skin.  Her eyes snapped open to see him turning away, picking up his wand from the table.

She remained frozen in place, motionless and speechless, as he approached her.  Then a whimper was torn from her throat as one finger brushed her nipple lightly.  For a second, she thought he smiled, but then he was scooping her into his arms, lifting her as easily as if she were a child.  He carried her through an open door and into a darkened bedroom, laid her on the bed and sat beside her.

He murmured a word, wand in hand, and the lamps flared to life.  

Annwyd looked up and saw his eyes fastened on hers, saw the lamplight glittering on the surface, saw the depths like dark tunnels behind the reflected gleam.  Still holding her with his eyes, he drew his fingers over her ribs, making her gasp and quiver.  She reached for him, wanting to kiss his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids, the tantalizing skin at the base of his throat.  She wanted to rub against him, wanted his arms around her, wanted to hide herself against his chest.    

"Be still," he whispered, pushing her back.  

This time she didn't obey his voice.  She was too hungry to close the distance between them.  It wasn't fair that she should be naked and burning with renewed heat while he was clothed and cool and commanding.  She struggled against the restraining hand, needing to embrace him, to feel his hair under her fingers and taste his mouth again.

One hand was on her shoulder.  The other held the wand.  

Turning the wand to point at her, he whispered an incantation. There was a flash of light brighter than the lamps, dazzling her eyes, and then she felt an unknown _something_ tightening around her wrists.  She let out a gasp of surprise as her arms were pulled back irresistibly and the magical bindings fastened her wrists to the iron posts of the bed.  

She pulled and struggled against the sudden restraints, but they held tightly.  Desire and sudden frustration churned in her guts.  

"Don't," she pleaded.  "Please.  I want to touch you."

He gave a low chuckle as he laid the wand aside.  "That's good," he murmured, "but you can't.  Not just yet."

She tugged against the bindings again, but she knew it was useless.  They didn't hurt her, but they didn't loosen no matter how hard she pulled.

"Shhh," he whispered, stroking her hair.  "Be still."

He continued to brush his hand firmly but gently over her hair and his voice murmured phrases of reassurance, low and soft, as if he were trying to lead a nervous horse from a burning building, the words unimportant but the tone guiding and calming.

At last she slumped back against the bed, her resistance spent.  Her eyes closed and her breathing returned to almost normal, deep and even.

"Good," he said, his hand still stroking her.  "Now look at me."  

She didn't think she could stay calm and still if she saw him, so she kept her eyes closed, kept her attention on the sound of her breath and the smooth repetitive motion of his fingers over her hair.  

"Look at me." The undertone of command returned to his voice.

She opened her eyes and was instantly caught by his gaze.  His hand left her hair and moved down to rest lightly against her stomach.  His fingertips traced a path from her navel to the space between her breasts and then up to the hollow at the base of her throat.  As his fingers sketched the lines of her collarbones, he must have sensed that she wanted to tear her eyes away from his, wanted to savor that shivering touch in the darkness.

"Keep looking at me," he whispered as he teased the sensitive places along her neck, making her breath quicken and her muscles tremble.  "Show me how it feels." His fingers glided lightly over her ear.  "Put the feeling into your eyes and show me."

They were only words, but they seemed to cast a spell she couldn't break.  Her eyes were bound to his just as her wrists were bound above her.  He stroked the insides of her arms and glided his fingers slowly down her sides.  He found the spot of nerves where her leg joined her hip, drew patterns of heat across her thighs.  Her body twisted and shivered as his hands played over it, but her eyes stayed locked on his dark gaze.  

His fingers trailed back to her stomach and over her ribs again, and finally came to circle her aching breasts.  The line of sight between their eyes was an almost-tangible thing, and she felt its hold tighten as his fingertips brushed her nipple.  Her body strained and writhed out of control as his fingers retreated, and she thought his eyes heated with her frustration.

For a long time he teased her breasts, touching them lightly, briefly, then turning his attention to her thigh or the crease of her elbow.  She was moaning, practically sobbing, when his hand finally cupped her breast and stayed there.  "Show me," he whispered again as his fingers tightened on her nipple.  

Dear gods it was unbearably good—his fingers working that tender point of flesh, twisting and pulling rhythmically, caressing and then pinching harder.  And all the while, his eyes seemed to grow impossibly darker and deeper, his hands giving her pleasure and his eyes drinking it out of her.  

Even when a fingernail bit sharp and deep into the terribly sensitive spot at the very tip of her breast, she couldn't twist her eyes away from his.  Tears came to her eyes as the pressure held and then increased.  His voice was crushed velvet, half growl and half purr.  "That's good," he murmured, "show me everything."  

And it _was_ good, gods help her, even the pain was good.  Even that was not too much to give him.  

She wouldn't have thought he could push her over the edge just from touching her breasts, but she was shuddering on the brink of another climax when he stopped.   She moaned and her body writhed convulsively as the release that was so close was taken away, pulled back just beyond her reach. 

"Not yet," he said silkily, stroking her face, his eyes soaking up her frantic need.  He brushed his fingers gently through her hair, soothing her backwards, just a little, from what she wanted.  She cried out when he teasingly brushed the skin of her inner thigh, instantly at the brink once again.  It seemed like an eternity that he played her back and forth along the edge, never allowing her to retreat very far from desperation but never letting her cross over the threshold.  

She was sobbing and twisting under his maddening hands when once more he cruelly slowed, retreating to the lightest touches.  She wanted to feel his body pressed against hers again, wanted to feel his energy crashing around her, but he was withdrawn inside himself and there was only the terribly focused heat of his fingers and the relentless pull of his gaze to connect them.  The air of the room was empty of _him_, filled only with the pitch and fever of her own desire.  

His fingers, barely touching her, slid across her skin.

"Say my name," he whispered.  "Say my name."

For an instant she almost said _Professor Snape_, but then the name she had never called him was on her tongue with the taste of a curse or a prayer.  

"_Severus_."

The sound of her voice breathing his name and the flash of heat in his eyes seemed to unlock a torrent of words that had been caught in her throat, and suddenly she was pleading with him, begging for him, screaming, sobbing, and then finally whispering that she needed him, wanted no one and nothing else but him.

He closed his eyes.  

His mouth moved almost soundlessly and the lamps flickered and died.

For a terrible endless second she was completely alone in the dark.  Then there was movement, the feel of breath against her skin, and his lips, warm and trembling, finding hers.  The kiss deepened slowly.  He stroked her mouth with his, and his hand moved between her thighs, caressing her inner folds, finding the place and the rhythm to release her.  

Everything melted.  The air turned to dark water around her and her mind floated out of time and thought.  After a while she was aware, with a wordless liquid awareness, that her wrists were free and her arms were wrapped around him, his shirt gone and the skin of his back deliciously smooth and warm under her hands.  

He raised himself on one arm and struggled to remove his trousers.  She started to help him when something caught at the edge of her awareness.  She was conscious of the warmth and scent of him, but also the pure sense of his presence, and somewhere in that presence, something was…not right.  

Her mind began to reform itself out the dream-like wash of her pleasure, and she felt, with quickening certainty, a snag in the flow of his energy, a hard, cold knot of something alien and _wrong_.  

Her eyes strained in the near-total darkness of the room and she could make out the shape of him as he kicked off the last of his clothing.  He knelt between her thighs, leaned over her.  Stroking her again, he murmured her name.  But his touch felt far away as her gaze instinctively went to his left arm.  

She shouldn't have been able to see anything but a silhouette—it was too dark to perceive colors or features—but there was something on his arm that was more than a color or shape.  She fixed her entire awareness on the knot of coldness that tugged at her mind, used every skill she knew to see it.  

And then she did see it.  Oh gods it was on his arm but it was stamped into the fabric of his subtle body as well.  A skull with a snake crawling from its open mouth.  An ugly thing.  A grotesque thing.  A thing she had seen before.   

It had been on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ last year after someone had cast this symbol huge and glowing into the sky.  But long before that, when she was still only a child, she had seen it then.  Those had been the dark days of fear and torture and murder.  She had felt safe enough in her isolated village, but she knew that witches and wizards across the land were living in terror.  And her grandfather, looking more stern and somber than she ever remembered, had shown her a picture of the snake and skull.  

_"If you ever see this symbol, Annwyd, anywhere on anything, you run away as far and as fast as you can.  It's the Dark Mark, girl.  The sign of the Dark Lord."_


	9. Chapter 9

****

**_Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

****

****

**Chapter 9**

"_Nox_."

It was barely a whisper, but the lamplight flickered and died.

Severus Snape sat motionless for an endless moment in the dark, listening to the breathing of the woman tied to his bed, breathing in the scent of her body.  _Annwyd_.  

Her voice still seemed to hang in the air, to hover in the soft darkness.  Her voice, which had shaken and sobbed and finally faded to a hoarse whisper.  

_I want you_

_I've always wanted you_

_please___

_I need you to touch me_

_please___

_I need to feel you_

_please___

_Severus_

He leaned over her till he could feel the release of her breath against his face, then pressed his mouth lightly, carefully to hers.  He could feel her body trembling as he caressed her lips with his.  Her mouth was hot and eager and wanted more of him, but he forced her to slowness, allowed the kiss to deepen only gradually, drew it out to savor the taste, the shiver and the ache of it.

When he reached for her sex, she opened to his hand and whimpered into his mouth.  His fingertips stroked the slick, wet heat of her, and her whole body tightened like a bow string ready to snap.  He knew that he had worked her to the brink again and again, knew he could bring her to climax in an instant, but now he coaxed her body to the rhythm that he wanted so that her pleasure came slow and long and deep.  As she shuddered and twisted under his hand, he buried his face in her hair, freeing her lips to gasp and moan and whisper his name.

The feel of her, the sound of her, was fueling his own desire, heightening his arousal to the point of pain.  But he had already taken her once in the fury and haste of urgency, and this time he would be patient, he would wait.  

He kissed her neck and throat as his fingers drew the last shivering spasms from her body, and finally she went limp against the bed, panting and dazed.  Working by feel in the dark, he freed her wrists from the restraints.  For a moment, she didn't seem to realize she was free, still drifting in the aftermath of her climax.  But after he had shrugged off his shirt and thrown it into the dark, she rose to meet him, arms circling around his waist.

Oh gods it was sweet to feel her wrapping around him, her face, moist with kisses and tears, warm and pressed to his chest, her arms clasping him tight, her hands kneading his back.  He kissed her, wanted her again, now, ached to be inside her.  And it was almost unbearably sweet to know that she would open to his desire, to know that she would welcome him with shivers and sighs of pleasure.  No Imperius Curse, just her, warm and yielding in the dark.  

He gently disentangled from her embrace to fumble one-handed with the button of his trousers, his nerves suddenly too eager for steadiness.  She reached as if to help, but then withdrew her hand and waited.  After a moment of hurried impatience, he pulled off the last of his clothing and reached for her.

During the moment since he had touched her, her skin had turned surprisingly cold.  As he stroked her arm, her muscles felt unexpectedly tense.  He touched her face and she gave a little quiver, but her body seemed to have suddenly gone rigid. Confused, he stopped and sat back from her.  

"Annwyd?"  

She made an odd little hiccoughing sound in her throat.

He laid his hand gently on her shoulder.  "Annwyd, what—"

But she jolted upright under his hand, startling him.  

"_Don't_!" she said in a shrill, strange voice, pushing back from him.  "_Oh gods, don't say my name."_

Then she was moving with clumsy haste, struggling to disentangle herself, though he wasn't trying to hold her, and she half-leapt, half-fell from the bed.  There was a thud that might have been a knee hitting the floor hard, immediately followed by a hiss of breath.

As she grabbed at the edge of the bed, gathering herself to her feet, her fingers brushed him, and she jumped away as if she had touched a poisonous snake.  He sat there, utterly stunned, gaping at her silhouette in the dark.  Then she turned and bolted out of the room.

For several seconds he couldn't collect his thoughts enough to follow her.  Finally, taking a blanket to wrap around his body, he walked slowly and cautiously to the door.  

She was there, in the front room, shoes in her hand, trying to pull on the ripped dress.

"Annwyd—"

She whirled and her eyes grew impossibly wide when she saw him.  He stepped back, raised his palms, trying to show that he meant no harm.  But her fingers were already frantically drawing a pattern in the air.  She vanished.  In the place where she had stood, there was a giant, hissing cat, eyes wide, fur raised, ears laid back.   He stared, numb with shock, then he heard a small click.  Looking sideways, he saw the open door, already closing.  The cat hissed again and clawed the air menacingly.  Was she there, disguised as the cat? Or already down the hallway?  

"Annwyd, please—" 

The cat gave a final hiss and dissolved.  

He walked slowly, numbly, to the door.  He opened it and looked down the corridor.  But he had known even before he looked that the hallway would be deserted.

~*~

An hour later, Snape sat, fully dressed, hunched over the table, staring down at the map he had given Annwyd Gwir.  It must have fallen from the pocket of her dress because he found it on the floor, along with a button.  The map, the button, and the faint, lingering scent of her in the air proved that she had been here.  

She had been here.  It hadn't been a dream.  

He wished to whatever merciful gods might listen that it had been.  But merciful gods were few and hard of hearing.

The tiny red dot keyed to the location of the Glamour Caster was in the far end of the box that marked her quarters on the map.  If he remembered the layout of the chambers correctly, that would indicate the bathroom.  The dot had remained motionless there for most of the last hour.  He supposed she was taking a bath.  Scrubbing him off of her skin.

He had just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.  

_And considering whose life it is, that's saying something.  _

Even after an hour, he couldn't assimilate it.  The knowledge was there—his stomach was a solid knot and his chest was a lead weight—but his brain hadn't quite wrapped around it.

He tried to take it in small pieces.  

_I shouldn't have answered the door.  _

He had suspected who was there, and he had been in no fit state to see anyone, let alone _her_.  If he had refused to answer for long enough, she would have gone away.

_If I did answer the door, I shouldn't have let her in._

Actually, he didn't quite remember how she had ended up inside with the door closed behind her.  He was sure he had not invited her in, but somehow she had been there.

_I should have refused to talk to her.  And good gods, I shouldn't have touched her.  At all.  In any way whatsoever._

He could have said he was occupied, sat down at the table and started writing, or at least pretending to write, and ignored her. She would have given up and left eventually.

_I shouldn't have—_

_Shouldn't have what? _He interrupted his own thoughts viciously, suddenly sickened by his own inability to come out with it.  _ Shouldn't have thrown her down in the middle of the floor and raped her? _

The knot in his stomach tightened even more as he tried to fight down a feeling of nausea.

It was not the moral self-revelation of a man who has just realized that he is capable of taking a woman against her will.  No, that bridge had been crossed and burned years ago.  The shock then of breaking a vow to himself, a vow he had kept for over thirteen years?  Perhaps.  After more than a decade of abstinence from this particular poison, he was far from happy to have tasted it again.  But _shocked_?  No, to be completely honest—and this was a moment for brutal honesty—he wasn't really shocked, not by that.  If he devoted a great portion of his energy to the cultivation of will and self-control, it was because he knew, at bottom, how fragile both could be.  He was disgusted by such failures, but not deeply surprised.

No, the mind-numbing shock of the thing was something else entirely.  Something simple really.

He hadn't known.

He hadn't planned it or intended it, but when somehow he found himself kissing Annwyd—

"_Don't say my name!_"

He flinched, took a breath, forced himself to continue, to work it through.

When he found himself kissing…_her_…there had been, for a brief sane moment, a warning in his head and a chance to stop, to avert disaster.  But at that moment, he had been certain—he had believed—

_For gods' sake say it, if only to yourself._

_I thought she wanted it._

Yes, gods help him, he'd thought she wanted it almost as much as he did.  When he'd pulled her to the floor and—

He shook his head.  He didn't want to picture it.  He tried to keep the thoughts cold and abstract, devoid of imagery.

She'd screamed and clawed at his back and he'd thought it was pleasure.  His stomach rolled over sickly.  

It seemed ridiculous now.   The stupidity of it—the self-serving blindness—sickened him as much as anything else.

There'd been no kindness in it, no words, no preliminaries.  What reason was there to think that she would have enjoyed it?

_I want you_

_I've always wanted you_

_please___

He suddenly had an awful vision—a vision so horrendously distasteful it was almost comical—of himself sitting in Dumbledore's office attempting to account for himself to the headmaster.

_"But she said—"_

_I need you to touch me _

_please___

_Severus_

_"And she said these things before or after you tied her to the bed?"_

_"She came to my rooms.  She touched my face.  She wanted—"_

Yes, she had wanted _something_—some company, some comfort, and perhaps, yes, to be kissed and caressed.  But not what had happened.  She hadn't wanted that.

Even to himself, he could think of no explanation that didn't sound pathetic and grotesque.

_"It's true, headmaster, that I did force myself on her—I did rip her clothes off and take her rather brutally on the floor, I did frighten her and tie her up and hurt her, yes—but she _was_ the one who knocked on the door." _

He saw her cheeks flushing and her mouth tensing with fear as he took off the dress and ravished her with his eyes, saw the tears on her cheeks when she lay helpless on his bed, his nails digging into her sensitive flesh, pulling the pain and submission into her eyes.  And he had reacted in typical Death Eater fashion, savoring the feel of domination and possession.   The fact that it could have been much worse, that he had done much worse in the past, would hardly made it better from her point of view.

And somehow, even during those moments of tension and tears, he had managed to believe that she liked it.  The heat and momentum of the moment had carried his illusion through to the end.

Oh, he was certain that he had pleased her body finally—the human body was capable taking pleasure, or something like pleasure, even when heart and mind were cringing in revulsion.  He was sadly well aware of that.  But to think it was anything more than that—

_Dear gods, the illusion had been so sweet._

With an effort, he steeled himself against the memory.  He could afford no more illusions now, only facts.

_Then why didn't she run earlier? _asked a stubborn part of his mind.  _Why didn't she throw a glamour and make her escape?_

He didn't know for certain, but he was willing to hazard a guess.  No doubt she had been confused and frightened.  Some people lost their heads entirely in a crisis.  After he had released her from the binding spell, after the daze of unwanted pleasure had faded, she had finally been able to gather her wits and run.  No doubt the prospect of enduring him a second time had provided sufficient motivation.

The small part of him that still wanted to deny the truth subsided.  

The fact was that women who came willingly to one's bed—well, he had precious little experience of that, but he could certainly make a few safe assumptions.  Women who came willingly to one's bed and enjoyed what happened there did not run off into the night, half-dressed, shoes in hand, eyes wide with fear.  They did not leap back with horror when they accidentally touched your arm in the dark.

And he—idiot that he apparently was—had stared at her dumbfounded, unable for long moments to grasp the obvious.  He closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands.

His life had had its moments—its hours, its days and nights on end—of bitterness and regret and self-loathing, but he seemed to have reached a new depth.  He had done worse things, certainly, but at least he had _known_ he was doing them.  He had spat in the face of everything people considered good and right in the pursuit of his own pleasure and power, but he had done it with full knowledge, with defiance and exhilaration.  And in that, even amidst whatever regrets had followed later, there was some kind of integrity to cling to.  

_I didn't know._

And far from making it better, that made it much, much worse.

It was certainly a mark of his essential selfishness, he thought, that however sorry he was for what he had done to Annwyd Gwir, he was sorrier for what he had done to himself.  He had betrayed his fundamental sense of trust in his own mind.  And beyond that—

He didn't want to think beyond that.

_Think it through to the end first.  Then you can stop._

Beyond that, he had discovered a hidden hope within himself that he would have sworn no longer existed.  In spite of his previous thoughts to the contrary, he _had_ hoped for what had happened—for what he _thought_ had happened—and he had let that dream usurp all reality.  Even now, he could feel the small space in his mind where the fragment of hope had buried itself, had lain dormant and invisible all this time.  He probed it, drew it out like a rotted tooth, and there was a wave of raw pain and sickening humiliation that he hadn't felt in years.  

He thought he had come to terms, long ago, with the fact that his life was not going to include most of the pleasures that people valued—the simple pleasures of human warmth and trust, of history shared with friends, or with a lover.  He had counted up the losses and accepted them.  If such losses were his fate, it did no good to rail against them.  And to the extent that they were the products of his own abysmally bad choices, it was even more useless to feel self-pity because of them.  The only sensible option—the only _livable_ option—was resignation.  

He thought of the nameless spy in the Ministry of Magic, the man who had been given the two potions.  There was only one way that the man could have won.  Snape had realized that later, and had taken the lesson to heart.  If the informant had had the strength of will to live with the first potion and refuse the second, he could have slipped the trap.  It would have been a joyless escape, yes, but it could have been done.  If the man had been willing to accept his losses, grievous though they were, and set his will on a goal, without thought of reward or happiness, he could have walked away a free man.  Miserable, perhaps, but not a slave.

Voldemort's informant had lacked such a goal.  But he, Snape, did not.  And, for the first time since Annwyd Gwir's departure, he felt just the tiniest bit better.  

His current situation was bad from every angle, and it was clearly his own fault.  But he would survive.  He had always survived before.  It was bad that he had harbored some secret hope that he could have her, could have whatever innocent physical pleasure it was that other people enjoyed—or, even more stupidly, that she would accept, would even _enjoy_, the permanently skewed direction of his own tastes, at least at the less extreme end of their spectrum.  The folly of that hope was now abundantly clear.  As was the only possible response.  If any spark of that miserable hope still flickered inside him, he would crush it out the way he had crushed out other dreams before.  And then he would do what needed to be done.

His goal was still there.  Underneath the wretched morass of doubt and guilt and nausea, underneath the quicksand of despair that sought to smother him, his feet touched the bedrock of the goal.  It had sustained him over the years, and it would do so once again.  If he had sunk deep in the slime before finding it again, so be it.  Indulgence in regret was part of the muck to be cut through.  But underneath, the bedrock was still solid.

He was going to bring Voldemort down or die trying.   

There would be no reward if he succeeded.  He did not expect to win accolades.  Even in the unlikely event that such were offered, _he_ would know, if others did not, that honor and glory were undeserved.  His motives were not noble.  They never had been.  

He did not expect happiness at the end, and certainly not anything so sadly trite as redemption.  In fact, it was hard to imagine _anything_ at the end.  It didn't matter.  He would do what must be done.  His ability to focus on doing what must be done had long been the essence of his strength.

Snape allowed himself to look at the map again.  The red dot had moved to the center of its box, the sitting room.  He pictured Gwir curled in one of the armchairs.  And the thought of her was more bearable now.  

It was not without the exertion of considerable effort, but he managed to relax his muscles slightly.  He forced a series of deep, calm breaths.  His mind was not as clear as it needed to be, but it was better.  

After a few more moments of trying unsuccessfully to rally his full powers of concentration, he rolled back the sleeve from his left arm.  He gazed at the skull and serpent.  They looked old and faded now, as they always did when Voldemort's attention was turned elsewhere.  But they were still clear enough and ready to flare to black fire again at any time.  He stared at the all-too-familiar shape and focused on the steady, cold ache of it.  

_The mark.__  And what you have to do.  Nothing else but this._

The minutes passed and finally his mind grew cold and empty.

Mechanically, he listed the names of the players.  _Snape, Gwir, Voldemort, Dumbledore, Mulciber, Malfoy…._

Then, just as mechanically, he mapped the possible actions, the possible outcomes.  Outcomes for himself, for Voldemort, and for her.

He sat still for a long time, thinking.  When he was ready, he took the map and his wand and left.

~*~

It was very late by now and the hallways were silent and empty.  As Snape climbed the stairs and strode down the corridors, he kept the map in hand and glanced at it often.  The red dot was bouncing from one side of its box to the other.  She was pacing.  If she decided to leave her rooms he would have to follow her.

But, when he arrived at her door, the dot was still inside.   

Gwir used wand-cast spells, including protection wards, so infrequently that she probably didn't guess her current danger.  Most witches or wizards would have known that, having cast the wards on her door himself, he was able to enter the room whenever he chose.  If she had realized that, no doubt she would have gone elsewhere.

He paused outside for a few seconds to briefly review his strategy.  He had rehearsed each step of the plan carefully.  If he was quick and silent and lucky, she wouldn't have time to cast a glamour.  If she did have time, he would have to improvise.  

First he cast a simple silencing charm on the door.  No betraying click would tell her it had opened.  He studied the dot's movements on the map.  She seemed to be tracing a path from the front office through the sitting room into the bedroom and then back through the sitting room to the office.  He watched the dot complete the circuit twice, then raised his wand.  The dot reached a point close to the other side of the door, then started moving away again.  That meant she was close and her back was turned.

"_Alohomora_," he whispered.  The door swung open without a sound.

He had not used the curse in over thirteen years—had hoped he would never have to use it again—but he said it clearly, without hesitation, wand pointed at Annwyd Gwir's back.

"_Imperio._"

She stopped, mid-stride, and stood motionless.

"Turn around."

Snape walked closer to inspect her face, to ensure that she had the blank, numb expression the curse should produce.  She did.

Her hair was damp and she was wearing a loose sweater over a pair of rumpled trousers.  He didn't want to look at her.

"Sit down and wait."

She pivoted and marched into the sitting room, seated herself in an armchair and remained there, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

He quickly inventoried the rooms.  There was no journal or parchment in evidence, no sign that she had started writing a letter.  

He found the clothes she had worn earlier balled up near the bathroom door.  He directed his wand at the wad of wrinkled fabric.

"_Reparo_."

The ripped fabric repaired itself.  He put the shoes neatly next to the side of the bed, folded the clothing and laid it on top of the dresser.  He left the map there also, next to the dress.

He made another circuit of the chamber.  There didn't seem to be any further evidence.  He returned to the sitting room where Gwir was seated, motionless, just as before.

"You will answer my questions honestly.  Have you spoken to anyone or written anything since you left my quarters?"

Her gaze remained fixed, but she answered.  

"No."

"Are you injured in any way?"

Her voice was without expression.  "I bruised my knee."

"Which one?"

She pointed.

He touched the tip of the wand to her knee and did a healing charm.

"Listen to me carefully.  You were not feeling well this afternoon.  You spent the evening here in your quarters and went to bed early.  Nothing happened that was out of the ordinary."

He raised the wand again.  A memory spell would have increased potency when combined with the Imperius Curse, so he pushed it only lightly.

"_Obliviate_."

Her mouth opened and her eyes went unfocused.  

The spell should be more than sufficient to wipe the last several hours from her mind.

There was only one more thing left to do.

The memory charm would prevent her from recalling the facts of the incident, but it would not completely erase its emotional resonance.  That would have to be changed as well.  He had only until the New Year to obtain the cooperation he must have from her.

"Stand up."

She got to her feet.

"Look at me."

She turned.

Moving closer, he put his hand under her chin and tipped her head so that her gaze was directed at his.  Her eyes seemed to regain some of their focus.

His hand twitched slightly and he was aware, for an awful second, of his fingers wanting to feel her damp hair and stroke her face.  He held himself perfectly still and the unsteadiness passed.

_Imperio_ worked best when commands were simple, and he already knew, had planned exactly, what he was going to say.  He knew the words would be bitter on his tongue.  He was only too aware of their morbid irony.  But nonetheless, he said them, his voice low but very firm, and he used all of his force of will to _push_ them into her mind.

Severus Snape fixed his eyes on Annwyd Gwir's.

_"Trust me."_

**To be continued…**


	10. Chapter 10

****

**_ Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**CHAPTER 10**

Annwyd woke up to the sound of knocking.  The light filtering through the drapes told her it was mid-morning, and the knock was most likely Lolly or another house elf bringing breakfast.  That meant she had already overslept.  Still, she could not quite bring herself to get up and answer the door.  Her eyelids slipped closed.  _I should get up_, she thought.  But by the time the thought had formed, she was already asleep once again.

When she woke up the second time, it was definitely late morning, probably close to noon.  She was more fully awake than before, but she still felt reluctant to leave her bed.  Her head ached and her mind felt oddly cloudy.  Well, it was always a little cloudy in the morning, but more so today than usual.  She hadn't felt especially well the day before, but in spite of spending a quiet evening indoors and going to bed early, she was as tired as if she'd been up half the night.  Her eyes felt puffy and her whole body was heavy and a little sore  _I must be getting sick_, she decided with a groan.

After staring at the ceiling for a few more minutes, she dragged herself out from under the covers.  It was only then that she realized she had apparently gone to bed still wearing her favorite sweater and trousers.  She hated sleeping in her clothes_.  I guess I must have been really out of it.  _

She took off the slept-in clothing and was a little surprised to see the dress she had worn to class yesterday folded in a neat square on top of her dresser.  She had always been careless with her clothing, and whatever she had worn the day before was generally found strewn across the floor the next morning.  And if she had been struck by a rare urge to be tidy, why hadn't she hung the dress in the wardrobe where it belonged?  _Odd, she thought fuzzily, and yawned. _

She put on a bra and underwear, a relatively unwrinkled pair of trousers and her second-favorite sweater.  Then she thought about finding something to eat for breakfast, or lunch, or whatever it was time for.  Her only class on Tuesdays didn't begin until three, so she had only slept through her office hours.  That, at least, was good.

She dragged a brush through the tangles in her hair and then headed out the door.  If she didn't see a house elf nearby, she could always go downstairs to the kitchens and carry a meal back to her quarters herself.

Just outside her door, she almost ran into Dumbledore.  

"Annwyd," said the old wizard pleasantly, "I was just coming to pay you a visit."

"Good morning, headmaster," she replied, trying to focus her still-bleary eyes on him.

"It was indeed a fine morning," he chuckled, "but it is now half an hour past noon.  I was concerned when you didn't attend the staff meeting.  Is everything all right, Instructor?"

_Staff meeting?  She groaned inwardly.  She had forgotten all about it._

"I'm sorry, Professor.  I only just woke up.  I seem to be a little under the weather."

He fixed her with a bright blue eye.  "Yes, you do look a bit peaked.  Will you be up to teaching your class this afternoon?"

She had certainly intended to, but now that Dumbledore seemed to be offering her an option, the thought of finding some food and then crawling back to bed suddenly sounded very tempting.

When he saw her hesitating, Dumbledore said kindly, "Why don't you go back inside and rest.  I'll have lunch sent up and I'll ask Madam Pomfrey to come round and check on you in a bit.  If you're not feeling better after lunch, we'll make some arrangements for your class."

"Thank you," she said gratefully.  "That's very kind of you.  Hopefully it's just a bit of a cold."

After Dumbledore wished her a speedy recovery, Annwyd retreated into her room.

~*~

"Now, when did you start feeling out of sorts?" asked Madam Pomfrey.  The school nurse had arrived almost immediately after Annwyd had finished lunch and had started peering at her and asking questions with few preliminaries.

"Yesterday afternoon," she replied.  "Really, Madam Pomfrey, I'm sure it's nothing serious.  I should really teach my afternoon class.  Maybe a dose of Pepper Up Potion…."

"I'll decide about all that," said Pomfrey briskly.  "Now, what symptoms did you first notice yesterday?"

Annwyd paused for a few seconds to think.  "Nothing in particular.  I just didn't feel very well."

The school nurse gave her a disapproving glance.  "One always feels bad in some _particular_ way, Miss Gwir.  So what was it?  Headache?  Stomach ache?  Fever?  Hmmm?"

"Um, no, none of those.  I don't think so."  

"Well, what then?"

The truth was that, when she tried to recall the late afternoon and evening of the previous day, she was drawing a complete blank.  She remembered leaving her office at around three or four o'clock.  At the time, she seemed to have felt fine.  A little worried about her classes maybe, but not ill.  And after that—  

Well, after that there was nothing.  Just the knowledge that she'd felt unwell.  But she hesitated to tell Pomfrey that she couldn't remember a single thing from yesterday evening.  It sounded silly.  

"I…I suppose I felt unusually tired.  I stayed in my rooms and went to bed early.  I even fell asleep with all my clothes on, which I normally never do.  And I woke up feeling out of sorts.  My head hurts and eyes are sore and I feel kind of achy all over. That's about it."  Not terribly helpful perhaps, but better than nothing.  "Just a bit of a cold I imagine."

"Do you have a sore throat?  Or a cough?  Sinus congestion?"

"No.  Maybe I'm a little hoarse, but that's all.  Mostly I just feel awfully tired.  And sort of…fuzzy." 

Pomfrey took out her wand.

"Well, let's just have a look then.  _Corpus morbus cognosco." _

The wand tip took on a faint golden glow, brightening when she moved it closer to Annwyd.  The nurse circled the wand around her patient's head and torso, watching the tip, which remained steady and bright.  She repeated the circling motion three times with the same results.  Finally, she replaced the wand in her robes, stepped closer and inspected Annwyd's face, looked in her eyes, listened to her breathing.  

 "Well, your color is certainly off, and your eyes look irritated, but I don't see any sign of illness or infection."  Pomfrey fixed her with a look half-stern and half-sympathetic.  "Been having a good cry, have we?"

"No!" said Annwyd, surprised.  "Nothing like that."

"Hmmm."  The nurse clearly didn't believe her.  "How are your classes going?"

"Fine."

Pomfrey waited.

"The students have been a bit more trouble than usual this past week or so, but I'm sure it will be all right."

"Mm-_hmm." _

"Really," said Annwyd, with a touch of irritation, "it's nothing serious."

"Anything else on your mind lately?  Family problems maybe?  A fight with a friend?"

"No," she said firmly. Once again, Pomfrey looked doubtful.  It was starting to get annoying.  Couldn't the woman see she was telling the truth?  There were no "family problems"—she hadn't seen her mother or Aunt Hafina in months—and, well, Professor Lupin was acting a bit strange for no clear reason, but that hardly qualified as a "fight."

The nurse gave her a look that clearly said, _If you don't want to tell me, that's fine—but don't think I don't know. _Annwyd probably would have been more exasperated if she didn't feel so tired.  

There was a longish pause.

"Well," said Annwyd at last, "do you want to give me a dose of Pepper Up?"

"No," said the nurse in a tone that brooked no arguments.  "You do not have a cold.  Nerves is what it is."  Annwyd started to protest but the older woman raised a hand to cut her off.  "We don't have to discuss it if you choose to keep things to yourself, but the body doesn't lie.  You've clearly been overwrought about something, and a Pepper Up Potion is the last thing you need.  I recommend that you take the afternoon off and relax.  Sleep if you feel like it.  If not, do something you enjoy.  Get a good night's rest tonight, and tomorrow I expect you'll feel better."

Annwyd merely nodded.  The suggestion to get some rest was not one she felt inclined to argue with.

"And," added Pomfrey as she turned towards the door, "I suggest confiding in someone.  Doesn't need to be me of course.  But it's not good to keep too much to yourself."

Annwyd thought of repeating that there was nothing _to_ confide, but it suddenly seemed like too much effort.   And Pomfrey wasn't likely to believe her anyway.

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey.  I appreciate your concern."

"Take care of yourself then, dear.  And remember what I've told you."

Annwyd nodded, fighting off yet another yawn, and the nurse left.

~ * ~

Early that evening, Annwyd was dozing in an armchair, a book of poetry open on her lap.  For the last few hours, she had drifted fitfully from dull waking to light sleep.  When she was awake, she tried to read, but found it hard to concentrate.  As she drifted away from consciousness, the half-read poems continued in her head in Grandfather's voice.  He was reading aloud to her as he often did.  And that was good, of course, comfortable and cozy.  

Except that, as the poems went on, she found it harder and harder to understand what Grandfather was saying.  The rhythm and meter sounded vaguely familiar, but somehow she couldn't make sense of the lines.  It was almost as if, without her realizing what had happened, he had started mixing in words from a foreign language, just a few at first, then more and more, until finally it was nothing more than nonsense.  

Annwyd looked up at Grandfather's face, frightened that she couldn't understand him.  Was he playing a game with her?  Talking in nonsense words?  But no, it clearly wasn't a game.  His expression was serious, almost grim.  She could see his face so clearly, but now even the sound of his voice was fading.  His lips continued to move and his kind hazel eyes regarded her solemnly, as if imploring her to pay more attention.  But finally his voice went completely soundless.  There seemed to be a wall of glass between them.  

Grandfather's face looked worried, the customary laugh lines rearranging into lines of tension.  He was trying to tell her something important—he was even pounding on the glass now, trying to make her listen.  She looked for a door, an opening, a way to get back to the sound of his voice, but there was no door in sight, only the invisible barrier.  

"Grandfather!" she cried out, reaching towards him—and something sharp pressed painfully into her stomach.

For a confused second, she couldn't tell what had happened.  The light was suddenly brighter and Grandfather's face had vanished.  But she could still hear him pounding on the glass and could still feel something hurting her stomach.  Then her head started to clear and she realized that she was curled in her faded velvet armchair, her body twisted into a tight ball, a corner of the open book jabbing her belly.  It was another second or two before she realized that the pounding had started up again even though the rest of the dream had faded.  Someone was knocking insistently at the door.

She stood and hurried toward the door on legs that felt stiff and uncooperative.  

"I'm on my way….just a second!"  She cleared her throat, which felt raspy.  "Who is it?"  

If whoever it was answered, she couldn't hear it.  Then, just as she was reaching for the knob, she heard a familiar cool voice, barely audible through the door.  "Professor Snape."

Annwyd's hand froze.  For a split-second, a wave of something like panic washed through her.  Her stomach dropped and her heart gave a sudden lurch.  Then, just as quickly, the feeling was gone, leaving her feeling cloudy and slightly confused once again.  She opened the door.

"I heard you were unwell, Instructor."  

For a second, Annwyd just looked at him.  If she herself looked a little off-color, Snape looked positively dreadful.  His face was drawn and his skin so pale it was almost translucent.  She could see the outline of veins at his temples and under his eyes.  His hair looked even more lank and untidy than usual.  His eyes, however, were clear and sharp as always, bottomless black.

"P-professor…" she stammered.  There was a odd spinning sensation in her head and something like a flicker of movement at the edge of her field of vision, as if the shape of the world were subtly rearranging itself just beyond the reach of her awareness.  She glanced around, but nothing looked abnormal and nothing was moving.

"I hope you weren't sleeping," said Snape.

Her gaze wandered back to catch his again, and all at once she found herself glad of his arrival.  Whatever odd fit of nerves was playing out in her head, she felt calmer looking at his eyes.  His steady gaze seemed like a safe, fixed point of reference in a world that had gone fuzzy and unpredictable at the edges. 

"I…no…well, actually, yes I was.  But I'm glad you knocked…I was dreaming something…" she trailed off.  "Please, come in."

She backed up and opened the door wider.  He hesitated briefly, then acknowledged the invitation with a slight bow of the head and stepped inside.  

Annwyd returned to the sitting room, gesturing him to follow.  She had no idea what the purpose of his visit might be, but it seemed very desirable that he should sit down and stay for a while.  In a small part of her brain, this struck her as slightly odd.  She wouldn't have expected that Snape would be a welcome visitor when one was feeling ill and out of sorts.  In fact, she could clearly remember an occasion in his class when another girl, a fellow Ravenclaw, had asked to leave early to visit the nurse.  Snape had eventually given the girl permission, but only after a series of derogatory comments that made an onset of stomach flu sound like a personal moral failure and a disgrace to her entire house as well.  For an instant Annwyd wondered if the Potions Master had stopped by to upbraid her for missing her afternoon class.  But the thought carried little weight.  She was happy—oddly relieved—that Snape was there.

She settled herself into one of the comfortable armchairs and watched as Snape sat down, a bit stiffly, in the other.  _Always so formal, she thought as her eyes followed his movements.  She had found this off-putting in the past, but at the moment it seemed rather comforting.  _

"Professor…I…" as she started to speak, she noticed that he was observing her intently in return, and she lost the gist of whatever she'd meant to say.  She ran a hand through her hair, which she realized was still tangled from her fitful nap, and surreptitiously tried to smooth it out.  

Snape continued to watch her in silence, apparently waiting for her to speak first.  After a pause, Annwyd said, "I'm sorry if I seem a little disoriented.  I was dreaming something when I heard you knock…."

"Nightmares, Miss Gwir?"  His voice sounded cool, as it normally did, but tinged with an undertone of concern.

"Well, yes, it was sort of unpleasant."  Snape arched an eyebrow and waited expectantly, as if the content of her dreams was something of particular interest.  This also might have seemed a bit odd if she'd felt inclined to consider it.  She didn't, however, feel so inclined.  "It was something about my Grandfather.  I can't remember exactly….  It seemed frightening, but now I'm not sure why."  

She felt a tiny bit foolish discussing a nightmare with Snape and half expected him to scoff at such nonsense.  But instead he nodded thoughtfully and leaned back in the chair, relaxing slightly.  Apparently, he wasn't annoyed after all.

"Madam Pomfrey mentioned that you were ill.  No doubt that accounts for your sleep being disturbed."

"I suppose so."  

"Our esteemed nurse believed you might require a sleeping draught, and she came to me to replenish her supply.  Since Pomfrey appeared busy, I offered to bring it to you myself."  He removed a small glass vial from his pocket and rolled it between his long fingers, then his gaze returned to Annwyd's face.  "It sounds as though a dose of Dreamless Sleep is indeed in order."  He seemed to be scrutinizing her even more carefully than the nurse had done.  "I hope your indisposition is nothing serious."

Annwyd flushed, feeling suddenly touched by his concern.  It was really awfully thoughtful of him to check on her, especially when he looked more than a little ill himself.  Busy or not, Pomfrey would have delivered the potion.  Snape had clearly made an excuse to visit her.  The thought caused a bubble of warmth to expand in Annwyd's chest.  The Potions Master might be cold and irritable most of the time, but really he was nice….  Well, maybe not _nice exactly.  But nonetheless, someone she could rely on. _

"I'm sure it's nothing serious."  Annwyd smiled at him.  She could feel the warmth in her chest creeping into her voice.  "Pomfrey told me it was 'nerves,' whatever that's supposed to mean.  But really I think it's just a touch of a cold."

"Very well, Instructor," said Snape.  "I will give you this and leave you to your rest then.  Unless there's anything else that you require."

Annwyd was vaguely distressed at the thought of his leaving.  "Yes, actually there is," she said, before he could rise from the chair.  She tried to think of an excuse to ask him to stay, then blurted out the first thing that came to her.  "Maybe you could tell me what this mysterious talk is about.  The one I asked you about yesterday afternoon…."  

She trailed off, momentarily distracted as her thoughts reached back to the previous day.  Yes, she could clearly recall the brief conversation in his office.  It was one of the last things to stick in her memory before the afternoon and evening faded into a strange haze.  She shook her head, wondering if Madam Pomfrey had been right.  Maybe there was something wrong with her other than a cold.

"Miss Gwir, I would prefer to discuss that particular matter after you are feeling well again."  Today's refusal was not nearly as curt and sharp as yesterday's, but his voice was nonetheless firm.

"Really though, Professor," Annwyd persisted, "if you don't tell me, I'm only going to worry."  She paused, shaking off her thoughts of the strange memory lapse to better concentrate on the topic at hand.  "Am I—am I in trouble for some reason?  Have I done something wrong with my classes?"

Snape gave her a long measuring look.  He took a breath and his expression softened slightly.  "I do not intend to berate you for your teaching skills, Instructor.  Nor have you, to my knowledge, committed any infraction of Hogwarts rules."

"Ah.  Well, that's a relief."  Annwyd ventured a small smile, which was not returned.  "So why not just tell me?  It can't be that bad, can it?"

Snape scowled in a way that was not exactly reassuring.  "Miss Gwir," he said finally, "do you recall our meeting with Dumbledore on the day after your arrival at Hogwarts?  The headmaster, if I remember correctly, informed you that Lord Voldemort has returned.  And that your particular skills might be useful in the fight against him.  That is, roughly, the matter I wish to discuss.  Beyond that, I insist that we wait until you are well."

Annwyd nodded in acquiescence to his last comment.  At the moment, she could think of nothing to say in any case.  Truthfully, as the term had progressed, the headmaster's dire words concerning the Dark Lord had been far from the forefront of her mind.  It was not that she doubted what Dumbledore had told her.  If he said that Voldemort had returned to power, she supposed it must be true.  But it was hard to imagine that it really had anything to do with _her_.  Other concerns had seemed far more pressing.

While she was musing on this, Snape had gotten to his feet.  "This vial contains two doses of Dreamless Sleep.  I suggest you take half of it tonight and the other half tomorrow night, if needed.  We will discuss…the other matter…soon enough."

He stepped towards her, the potion in his hand   Looking up at him, Annwyd found that she was far less worried about the impending conversation than she might have expected.  Catching his dark eyes, she held his gaze for several seconds.  His look was not warm, but it was clear and determined and steady.  In spite of his obvious exhaustion at the moment and the unhealthy pallor of his skin, she couldn't shake the feeling that Professor Snape was someone she could count on.  Yes, she concluded, whatever the details of their talk turned out to be, everything was going to be all right.  

"It was kind of you to visit me," she murmured, still looking into his eyes.

Snape blinked and looked away for an instant.  When his gaze returned to hers, his eyes had narrowed and his mouth had twisted into another scowl, as if she had just accused him of some thoroughly reprehensible vice.

"It was not kind, Miss Gwir.  I am merely attending to my duties."  

Annwyd suppressed a smile at the this reaction as she reached to take the vial that he was offering.  It seemed so utterly like him to resist any effort at appreciation.  And impulsively, before he could draw his hand out of reach, she suddenly clasped his fingers in hers and held them.  

"Thank you."  

Snape's eyes widened and his hand felt tense in hers, but he didn't jerk away as she half-expected.  And when, several heartbeats later, his disentangled his fingers from her grip, he did so surprisingly gently.  

"Sleep well, Instructor.  I trust that tomorrow will find you much recovered."

And then he was striding out of the room in a swirl of black robes, leaving her with the sleeping potion in one hand and the warmth of his fingers still tingling through the other.

Before he could reach the door leading out to the hall, however, Annwyd rose to follow him.  

"Severus—"

She couldn't say why his given name, which she had never used before, suddenly came quite easily to her lips.  But somehow it seemed natural.  She found that liked the sound of it.  

He paused for a second, then turned with that oddly formal grace she was growing accustomed to.  If he was surprised by her manner of addressing him, he didn't show it.

"Yes, Instructor?"

"Perhaps you should take a dose of that sleeping draught yourself.  You look…well, you look as if you could use it."

He allowed himself a small sigh and, for the first time, a little of the weariness lining his face crept into eyes as well.  _He works too hard, thought Annwyd.  _He doesn't take care of himself.  _The thought made her unaccountably sad._

Snape nodded rather curtly, but his voice remained mild.  "Thank you, Miss Gwir.  I will consider your advice."

Just as he was closing the door behind him, leaving the room feeling rather empty, Annwyd heard a high-pitched female voice from down the hall.

"Excuse me, Sir.  Could I trouble you to assist me?"

Annwyd's head jerked up.  She knew that voice.  Falsely bright and cheerful on the surface, a bit cold and brittle underneath.    

But it wasn't…was it?

Snape murmured something indistinct outside the door.

"I'm trying to find the quarters of one of the teachers, Miss Annwyd Gwir, but I'm sure that those miserable house elves have misdirected me."  The voice was louder and closer now, and was followed by a sugary little laugh.

This time there could be no mistake.  It _was her.  _

Snape's response was just loud enough to be audible.  "I'm afraid Miss Gwir is rather indisposed at the moment, Madam.  Perhaps someone else can help you with something."

"Indisposed?  Nonsense, Sir.  She can hardly be too indisposed to see _me."  The surface sweetness faded from the voice, leaving the hard edge.  "Now kindly tell me where I can find her quarters."_

_What on earth is she doing here? wondered Annwyd as the conversation continued in the corridor._

"Perhaps, _Madam, you should tell me the nature of your business."_

"My business, as I have told you, _Sir, is to locate Annwyd Gwir."_

Reluctantly, Annwyd advanced to the door and pulled it open.  Snape was standing immediately outside, arms crossed, blocking the door.  Rather protectively, she thought, with a touch of warmth.  He seemed to be engaged in a staring contest with a witch wearing elaborate lavender robes of crushed velvet.  A silver fur-lined cloak was draped prettily over her arm and the sweet smell of perfume filled the hallway.  The woman's hair, a brighter red than Annwyd's, was caught up in a flattering French twist held by a jeweled clip.  Her eyes, clear and hard as cut emeralds, were locked on Snape's.  She didn't seem to notice that the door had opened.    

The two people facing each other outside Annwyd's rooms were clearly unaccustomed to having their best icy stares returned so boldly, and the clash of energies in the hall was palpable.  Annwyd was almost tempted to stay silent and observe the spectacle, waiting to see who would blink first.  However, given the set of Professor Snape's shoulders and the jut of the woman's chin, she supposed that might take a long time.  Instead, she pointedly cleared her throat.

Both staring figures turned to face her.  Taking a deep breath, Annwyd nodded a brief acknowledgement to Snape.  Then her gaze went to the emerald-eyed, lavender-clad witch.  Unlike Snape, Annwyd didn't return the woman's stare for very long.  Her eyes found the floor rather quickly.  

Though she didn't see it, Annwyd could sense the look of petty triumph that the woman now flashed in Snape's direction.  When she spoke though, her tones were sweet and bright once again.

"Annwyd, _darling—I thought I'd never find you!"_

Annwyd twisted a lock of tangled hair around her fingers.  She forced a nervous smile and raised her eyes.  

"What a nice surprise, Mother.  I didn't expect you."

Annwyd's mother swooped forward immediately, pulled her into a feather-light embrace and kissed the air at each side of her face.  

"I've missed you, Annwyd!" she exclaimed breathily.  "It's been far too long.  And," she added in the same bright tone, "you must introduce me properly to your colleague.  He's been so _helpful."_

Snape looked more than ready to make his exit, but Annwyd mumbled a brief introduction.  "Er, yes, Mother.  This is Professor Snape, the Potions Master."

 "Charmed, I'm sure, Mrs. Gwir," said Snape in his driest voice.

"No, darling," Mother laughed, patting his arm, which produced an undisguised flinch and grimace.  "I haven't been 'Mrs. Gwir' for years now.  But apparently my daughter doesn't bother to talk about me"—she interjected a melodramatic sigh—"or you'd know that it's Mrs. Whistbury now.  But you may call me Amanda."

Snape looked more likely to cough up a live newt than to call her 'Amanda,' but Mother pretended not to notice.  As long as she was getting her own way, Mother was a great adherent of the social niceties.

"And you must be _Severus Snape," she continued.  "I know your third cousin, Selina.  And I'm sure that Mr. Malfoy has mentioned you as well.  Or was it Mr. Crouch?  No, no, I do believe it was Lucius."_

Annwyd was about to interrupt before Mother could do any further name-dropping, but Snape beat her to it.  "Indeed," he said, his voice now positively icy.  "And no doubt you may convey my regards to _all_ my long-lost relatives and acquaintances.  But now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do."  Snape nodded to Annwyd, gave the smallest possible jerk of his head in Mother's direction, and swept down the hall and around the corner.

"Well, well. So that's Severus Snape," said Mother loudly and cheerfully, not waiting until he was safely out of earshot.  "He appears to be just as unpleasant as everyone says."

"Please come inside," said Annwyd quickly, taking her arm and steering her through the doorway before Snape could return or anyone else could happen by.

~ * ~

An hour or so later, Annwyd's mother was perched regally in the same armchair Professor Snape had occupied earlier.  Annwyd was curled in her own favorite chair.  Over her mother's shoulder, she could see Lolly clearing the remains of dinner from the table in the next room.  There was a sound of breaking crockery and a stream of squeaky apologies when one of the plates slid off the tray and onto the floor.

Annwyd ignored her mother's look of disgust and hastily called out her reassurances.  "Don't worry about it, Lolly.  It's only a plate.  It's all right.  Really."

Lolly could hardly be blamed for dropping something, thought Annwyd.   Mother had practically driven the house elf to tears during the meal, complaining about the cleanliness of the silver, the quality of the food, the temperature of the tea, and everything else imaginable.  Lolly had run back and forth to the kitchens a dozen times trying to make everything acceptable, and by now the elf was trembling with anxiety.  

"You wouldn't be saying 'it's only a plate' if _you_ were buying the crockery," said Mother.  "I swear, those awful elves of mine break a dish a day.  They do it on purpose you know, just to see if they can get by with it."

"If it's such a problem," suggested Annwyd, "couldn't you do _Reparo_ on the dishes?"  Her own use of the simple repairing spell was iffy at best, but Mother could perform it perfectly well.

"Well, yes, dear.  But it's the principle.  They're supposed to be saving us work, not causing us more of it."

In the next room, Lolly had gathered up the bits of crockery and she hastily left the room, bowing and still squeaking apologies under her breath.  Annwyd silently vowed she would never snap at the elf again.  

A second later it occurred to her that this was a strange thought.  When had she ever snapped at Lolly?  She tried to concentrate and felt a strange splitting, something like a mental version of double-vision.  She felt a distinct twinge of guilt for being unkind to the house elf, while, at the same time, she was certain that she couldn't remember doing any such thing.  

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sharpness in Mother's voice.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"No—I mean yes, I was listening.  The house elves.  Breaking dishes.  On purpose."

Mother sighed.  "I can't imagine how you manage to teach a class, Annwyd.  You can't stop daydreaming long enough to follow a conversation.  How do you ever remember a whole lecture?"

"I seem to be doing well enough."

"I was _saying, darling, that you must attend this party.  You simply must."_

"This party…?"

"The party that Jeffrey and I are throwing for Mr. Kernhopper."  She gave another martyred sigh to show the trials of not being properly listened to.  "As I just _told you, Ptolemy Kernhopper has just been promoted to the head of the Office of Misinformation and we're going to have the most marvelous party to celebrate."_

Annwyd wondered if she was expected to know who Ptolemy Kernhopper was.

"It's one of the most important jobs in the DRCMC, so naturally we're all very happy for him."

"The D-R-C-M-what?" asked Annwyd.

"The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.  You do know what _that_ is, I hope."

"Yes, of course I do," said Annwyd, a little defensively.  "I just never heard it called by its initials."

"All of the Ministry people call it that.  It's just too much of a mouthful otherwise, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Annwyd neutrally.  _I will not be embarrassed or feel inadequate for not hob-nobbing with the Ministry, she told herself, _especially since everyone at Hogwarts thinks they're a bunch of incompetent idiots._  _

"If it wasn't for the Office of Misinformation," said Mother, "we'd never keep the Muggles from finding out about dragons and such.  So it's really a great honor for Mr. Kernhopper.  He'll be the youngest head of that office ever."

 "Well, yes.  That sounds, um, very nice for him."

"Yes, but the point is that everyone who's anyone will be there.  So you must come and meet all my friends."

Annwyd briefly considered pointing out that Mother had spent the past several years carefully letting "everyone who's anyone" believe that she didn't have a daughter.  But baiting Mother was never worth the effort.  And apparently, now that she was employed as a teacher at Hogwarts, Annwyd was acceptable enough to be reintroduced into Mother's world.  

"I'll come if I can work it into my schedule," she said instead.

"Rubbish," said her mother.  "How busy can your schedule be?  You don't teach night classes, do you?"

"Well, no—" Annwyd admitted.

"Then it's settled.  I'll expect you.  And don't worry, I'll find you a suitable escort."

"Really, Mother, thank you, but I don't need an escort."

"Of course you do, darling.  It's a formal party—you can't arrive alone!  I'll find someone charming, I'm sure."

"If I must go with someone," said Annwyd, "I'd rather not be stuck with a stranger."  The gods only knew what kind of awful wizard Mother would pick.  "I'll just invite someone I know, all right?"

"Oh!"  There was a sudden squeal of interest.  "You're _seeing_ someone!  Who is it?  Do I know him?  You must tell me!"  

"No, Mother," Annwyd sighed, feeling weary.  "I'm not _seeing anyone.  But I do have a friend I could ask."_

"Ah."  The interest faded to disappointment.  "Well, I hope it's not that Snape fellow I saw coming out of your quarters.  I mean, the Snapes are a fine family and his cousin Selina is lovely, but he seems a little lacking in the social graces, don't you think?"

Annwyd found it hard to imagine inviting Snape to a party, particularly one of Mother's parties.  And certainly not after he'd _met Mother._

"No, I was thinking of Professor Lupin.  I doubt you've met him."  She was pretty sure that Lupin's social circle was far from Mother's.

"You don't mean…."  Mother paused and sniffed delicately.  "You don't mean _Remus Lupin, do you?"_

"You know him?" asked Annwyd with surprise.

"No, of course not!"  She sounded unaccountably offended.  "But I certainly know _of him, and you absolutely may _not_ invite him."_

Annwyd was rather taken aback.  "Why not?"

"Annwyd, darling, it may have been awhile since I attended Hogwarts myself, but don't think I don't keep up to date on the latest.  I know all about your Professor Lupin, and really, I must say I'm shocked to hear you even consider it.  How would it look?  No, no.  That won't do at all."

Annwyd could not for the life of her think why the idea would be so shocking.  Was Lupin a Muggle-born wizard then?  Had Mother become that narrow-minded?  Or was it just because he was poor?

"You just leave it to me, Annwyd.  I'll find someone to take you and you'll have a lovely time. I promise."

Annwyd wondered if Mother realized how she made "you'll have a lovely time" sound like a mortal threat.

"So all that's left," Mother went on, "is to talk about your clothes."

Annwyd felt exhausted and she was hoping the visit would end soon.  Then she could swallow the Dreamless Sleep potion and go to bed.  

"I believe I can manage to find something to wear.  And I'm sorry I can't visit with you longer, but the truth is, I'm not feeling well.  I really think I ought to call it an evening."

"Well, dear," Mother sniffed sadly, "I wouldn't want to _trouble_ you with my presence.  But really, we ought to discuss your outfit.  Because here's the thing—everyone's going to be dressing as _Muggles!  Won't that be fun?"_

"Muggles?  Why?" said Annwyd, her face blank.  As far as she knew, the high-society of wizardry never dressed in Muggle clothing if they could help it.

"It was my idea, actually.  It's sort of a joke, you see.  Ptolemy Kernhopper always swore that he'd never take a job that had anything to do with the Muggle world.  But then of course when they offered to make him the head of the Office, he said yes quicker than a Snitch.   So I thought we'd tease him a little by all dressing as Muggles at the party.  Isn't that funny?"

"Um, yeah," Annwyd said doubtfully.

Mother was clearly disappointed that Annwyd didn't applaud her delightful cleverness in concocting this novelty.

"Even Lucius Malfoy thinks it's a good idea," she added with a touch of defensiveness.  "At first he thought it sounded rather tasteless, but I've convinced him it will be ever-so-amusing.  And my dressmaker wasn't keen on it either at first, but now she's practically in a tizzy—studying  Muggle styles and taking orders left and right.  So I'm sure she can make you something dazzling."

"But I already have clothes that can pass for Muggle," said Annwyd.  Other than the robes she'd purchased at Diagon Alley, all of her clothing came from the years when she'd lived with Grandfather.  All of it was intentionally nondescript and simple so it could be worn in the local village without raising eyebrows.

"Yes, no doubt, dear" said Mother, eyeing Annwyd's sweater and trousers with disdain.  "But we'll be dressing as _fashionable Muggles.  _Wealthy_ Muggles. No one will be impersonating the local peasantry."_

More and more, this whole thing was sounding like a nightmare.  Annwyd found herself wishing she had never opened the door when she heard her mother's voice in the hallway.  But at this point, she was too tired to argue.  She nodded wearily.

"Very good then.  I'll have Belinda send you the dress when it's finished and I'll let you know as soon as I've found you an escort."  Mother took an envelope and a small, cloth-wrapped package from her pocket and laid both neatly on the end table.  "Here's your formal invitation and your Portkey.  I figured with the Portkey, no one needs to know"—she lowered her voice to a near-whisper—"that you can't Apparate."

"Thank you, Mother," said Annwyd dryly.  "That's very considerate of you."

Annwyd got up and, thankfully, her mother did the same.  She walked her to the door, grateful that the visit was almost over.

"One more thing, darling," said Mother as they crossed the room.  "You won't use those silly glamours at the party, will you?"

Tired or not, Annwyd was finally losing patience.  "Do your friends know that I _teach_ Glamours at Hogwarts?  Or is that supposed to be a secret too?"

"Now, dear, there's no need to get snippy.  Yes, of course they know what you teach.  And mostly they're all gracious enough to think it quaint and charming.  But that doesn't mean you have to push it right under their noses, does it?"

"Good night, Mother," Annwyd said firmly.

Her mother gave her a last appraising look.  "You know, Annwyd, maybe I was wrong about that last part."

Annwyd glanced over at her in shock.  She couldn't remember Mother apologizing for something she'd said.  Ever.  

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't make a fuss about your glamours at the party, but if you wanted to do a little…you know…" Mother's hand wiggled in the air in a clumsy imitation of the casting motion.  Then the hand dropped to hide itself in the folds of her robe as if it were embarrassed by its actions.  "If you wanted to do one of your tricks to perk yourself up a bit"—she gestured with her other hand at Annwyd's face and hair—"that might not be such a bad idea.  Because, really, my dear, you _do look dreadful."_

She gave her daughter a wave and kissed at the air in her vicinity, then flounced through the door in a swish of lavender velvet.

Annwyd stood stiffly in the doorway and watched her go.  For a second she bit her lip in indecision.  Then, before the velvet-clad back had disappeared from sight, Annwyd sketched a pattern in the air and closed the door.

_That was childish, she told herself.  _Very, very childish_.    _

Nonetheless, she felt better than she had since Mother's arrival.  And it didn't hurt anything, did it?  Not really.  

She found the vial of sleeping potion and swallowed half of it, then undressed, leaving a trail of clothes across the floor.  As Annwyd climbed into bed at last, she wondered how long the glamour she'd cast would last.  The illusion was small and simple, so it might be good for a full three days, or even four.  Mother would never notice it herself.  But for the next few days, everyone else who encountered Amanda Whistbury would be convinced that her face was dotted with large and conspicuous warts.

Contemplating that happy thought, Annwyd fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

****

**_ Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**CHAPTER 11**

Starting on Wednesday, the weather had turned nasty.  The crisp blue skies of the previous week gave way to morning fog and afternoon rain.  By early Saturday, the sky was filled with heavy, dark grey clouds and a steady downpour churned the Hogwarts grounds to mud.  

The potions lab was cold and the walls were slightly damp.  On the other side of the castle, the dungeons were completely underground, but the school was built on a hill that sloped down to the cliffs above the lake.  So here there were small, narrow windows cut into the cliff face, and the sound of rain splashing into the lake drifted into the chilly, stone-walled room.  

Professor Snape stirred pieces of freshly cut ginger root into the small steaming cauldron in front of him.  He had already added a measure of powdered scarab beetles and half a beaker of armadillo bile.  The mixture was dark and thick and smelled foul, but the sharp tang of the ginger cut through the more unpleasant smell of the bile.  Snape observed the color and consistency with a critical eye.  It would need to simmer for several more minutes before the next ingredients were added.

He opened a small but precious jar of Jobberknoll feathers suspended in an extract of dragon blood.  The contents of the jar, which was small enough to close his fingers around with room to spare, was worth as much as he was paid for an entire term of teaching.  The Jobberknoll bird was small, rare, and difficult to catch.  Moreover, only the feathers from its throat had the magical properties required for the work at hand.  Once procured, the tiny blue feathers had to be immersed in a clear liquid that was painstakingly separated and purified from the blood of an Antipodean Opaleye dragon, then sealed and left undisturbed in a dark cupboard for two years.  

The feathers never quite dissolved, but they turned fragile and colorless as their essence was absorbed by the liquid.  When the process was done correctly, a few drops of the finished product was an essential ingredient for making Veritaserum.  Only a few wizards knew the secret of making the potent truth-telling potion.  To Snape's knowledge, he was the only one that knew how to make a counter-agent.

It had taken many months of experimentation, but eventually he had hit upon the correct combination.  A basic Wit-Sharpening Potion formed the base.  That had been obvious enough.  The Jobberknoll essence had also been a given.  Like many antidotes and counter-agents, this one contained a small measure of the ingredient it worked against.  A powdered bezoar and five grains of crushed unicorn horn had been early guesses which had proven correct.  But all that had still been insufficient.  It was only after much frustration and dozens of failed attempts that he had happened upon the two final components—dried root of Devil's Snare and finely ground Hippogriff claws.  He was still not sure exactly why the combination worked.  But it _did work, and that was what mattered most._

Ingesting a small amount of the counter-agent every day protected him from interrogation with Veritaserum.  It did not completely nullify the effects, which was also crucial.  He had practiced repeatedly with Dumbledore to ensure the proper dosage.  A dose of three or more drops made it too obvious to a keen observer that the truth-telling potion wasn't affecting him.  At two drops a day, however, he would feel the Veritaserum working, would feel the compulsion to talk and answer questions—but he would have just enough mental resistance to keep the most important facts concealed.  And, should such an interrogation ever take place, his life and much else would depend on that resistance.

When Snape was satisfied with the look and smell of the liquid in the cauldron, he filled a tiny eyedropper with the Jobberknoll essence and let one shining drop fall into the mixture.  It hissed and sparked just as it should, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  Adding this ingredient at precisely the right moment was the key to success.  The rest of the preparation was routine.  

An hour later the brewing was complete.  He would leave the counter-agent to settle and cool overnight, then tomorrow it could be diluted and bottled.  He covered the cauldron, cleaned his work area, and returned the tools and supplies to their proper places.  

One of the day's tasks was now finished, and he had a quarter of an hour to spare before the next began.  In fifteen minutes, unless she was late, Annwyd Gwir would be paying him a visit.

~ * ~

Snape scrutinized the room, trying to see it as she would—somewhere unfamiliar rather than home.  It was, he decided, presentable enough, though hardly warm or inviting.  Well, there was little he could do about that, other than lighting a fire in the hearth.  The air was merely chilly, not actually cold, and ordinarily he would have considered a fire unnecessary.  Nevertheless, he flicked his wand in the direction of the fireplace and brought it to life.  The flickering flames had a softening effect on the rather severe, uncluttered lines of the simple furnishings and unadorned walls.  And in truth, the warmer air was not unwelcome after a day spent in the damp chill of the potions lab.

Pacing about, waiting for the instructor to arrive, Snape was unable to entirely push aside the memory of the other time Miss Gwir had been in this room.  Once again, as he had several times over the past days, he questioned the wisdom of meeting her here rather than in his office.  And once again, he concluded that his decision was correct.  He had never divulged the details of his role with Voldemort anywhere but here and in Dumbledore's office.  Those two areas, Snape supposed, were surely the best-warded places at Hogwarts, perhaps among the best in all of Britain.  The web of wards and spells he had woven around his personal quarters ensured their safety and absolute privacy.  Meeting somewhere else for the sake of psychological comfort was hardly sensible.

And besides that, he mused, there was a certain harsh symmetry in the arrangement that he approved of.  In a few minutes he would stage the crucial encounter with the Glamour Caster, and this would be laid over the top of the events that had taken place here Monday night.  This afternoon's meeting would not erase or eclipse the other occasion, but it would, in some sense, correct it.  In the same room where he had made such a terrible error, he would form the alliance that should have been formed weeks ago.  And that, he hoped, would do much to exorcise the ghosts that had haunted his quarters for the last week.  

Today he would look at the Glamour Casting Instructor and he would not see an illusion of desire, unwittingly conjured by his own pathetic dreams.  Neither would he see the terror that had followed in the wake of his stupidity.  If all went as planned, when he looked at Annwyd Gwir at the end of their meeting, he would see the proper mixture of faith and caution.  Provided he had done his work well, she would trust him well enough to cooperate…and know him well enough to keep her distance.  

With that end firmly in mind, he sat down and waited.

The minutes passed quickly enough and at noon the expected knock arrived precisely on time.  Snape rose without hesitation and answered the door.  

~ * ~

The Potions Master and the Glamour Casting Instructor faced each other across the wooden table.  The young woman, Snape noted, was seated rather stiffly in her chair.  He watched her trying to assimilate what he had just told her.  Her eyes traveled over his face, searching for something she didn't seem to find, her forehead crinkled with confusion.  She was trying and somehow failing to see him as he was.  A colleague, a Hogwarts Professor, yes…but a Death Eater? a spy?  She wasn't grasping it, he sensed, not yet.  The words were not enough.  She had to know it in her gut.  It had to be real.       

Snape unbuttoned his left cuff and rolled back the sleeve, then held his arm out for Gwir's inspection.  He had performed this action exactly twice before.  The first had been years ago, the night he made his confession to Dumbledore and waited without fear or hope to hear his fate decided.  That night, he had been unable to frame any words that seemed adequate.  The simple showing of the mark had been not only easier but more honest; it proclaimed what he had done, what he had become, without the temptation for excuses or justifications.  The second time had been a mere five months ago, when he had hoped to shock Cornelius Fudge out of his willful blindness, had tried—unsuccessfully—to force the Minister to acknowledge the Dark Lord's return to power.  

For a second, Snape regarded his own out-thrust arm, poised over the table between himself and Annwyd Gwir.  He took in the well-known shape of his bones and muscles and tendons, the tracery of bluish veins at the wrist, the hatefully familiar symbol stamped in faded black.  Then he raised his head to regard the Glamour Caster, whose green eyes were riveted to the snake and skull.

For several long seconds, her face was so unchanging that Snape wondered if, like the Minister of Magic, she would simply refuse to accept the truth in front of her.  But as more seconds ticked by and she continued to stare steadily, he realized that the blankness of her expression was not denial but intense concentration.    

He stifled the urge to cover or withdraw his arm.  His instincts told him that this was the crucial moment.  He must let the woman complete whatever process she was engaged in, must endure this prolonged exposure without speaking or flinching away.  Though he wasn't sure why, he knew with growing certainty that what he had already told her, and anything he said later, would be secondary.  This inspection, and whatever reaction was finally evoked from her, would determine the results of today's encounter.

The moment stretched out so long that he started to wonder if the Glamour Caster had fallen into some kind of trance.  But then, just as he formed the thought, she shivered, her whole body trembling visibly.  Gwir's face, however, remained as blank as before, and he could not say if the shiver was one of fear or of disgust.  

Finally, she raised her eyes and looked at him.  

Her voice was only a whisper.  "It's so…."  She shivered again and her eyes returned to the Dark Mark.  

As Snape waited, forcing patience and stillness, one part of his mind whispered guesses to complete her sentence.  So…shocking? ugly? repulsive? evil-looking?  Another part of his mind supplied another ending, his own least-favorite description:  It's so…_permanent_.

When she raised her eyes again, however, she voiced none of his guesses.

"It's so…_cold," she said.   "Does it…does it hurt all the time?"_

For an instant, he was thrown off balance completely.  He had never mentioned the coldness of the mark to anyone.  Not Dumbledore, not the other Death Eaters, no one.  And then the question—_does it hurt _all the time_?  As if the simpler question—__does it hurt?—need not be asked.  He suddenly wondered how much he really knew about the woman seated across the table, how well he understood her arts and abilities.  _

It was only several seconds later that he realized she was waiting for an answer.

"Yes," he said.  "It is by no means unbearable, and I am used to it.  But it was designed with a certain amount of discomfort in mind…designed to remain in one's awareness."

Gwir nodded slowly.  A second later, he saw, to his surprise, that her eyes seemed to be filled with something that looked like admiration.

"You did this…you took the mark…to spy for Dumbledore?"

It was tempting to let that admiration shine for a moment longer—and that was all the more reason to cut it off at once.  "No," he said sharply, not trying to keep the harshness out of his voice.  "Do not overestimate me, Instructor.  I took the Dark Mark to be a Death Eater.  The other part came much later."

He watched the information take hold.  Still, she did not appear frightened or even worried.  If he was reading her face correctly, she looked…sad.  She glanced down at the table, and there was another silent pause.  Snape wondered if she would ask him to explain his decision—either of his decisions—and hoped she wouldn't.  

When she raised her head again, she had composed her features into something business-like and stern.  

"Why are you telling me this—showing me this, Professor?  Surely it is a risk to you for anyone to know."

At last, Snape withdrew his arm and rolled down his sleeve.  The initial test was over.  He had passed, and the rest was a matter of working out the details.  Important details, to be sure, but first part of the battle was won.

"At one time, no one knew but myself and Dumbledore.  Now, the arrangement has become less of a secret.  That, to be sure, makes my work more difficult…more complex.  I am what I suppose you might call a double agent."  Snape grimaced slightly.  He disliked the term, with its hint of romance and melodrama, but there was not another suitable description.  "It would not work if Voldemort chose his servants based on trust.  But he does not.  He doesn't think along those lines.  So long as he feels my usefulness outweighs my threat, he will allow me to continue.  Should he feel that the balance has shifted, it will end."

The Glamour Caster nodded and swallowed hard.  Before she could ask another question, Snape continued.  "You are right, however, in thinking that I would not be having the present conversation without a reason."  He paused to make sure he had her full attention.  "Dumbledore told you that your arts might be useful in the struggle against Lord Voldemort.  That is true enough.  What the headmaster did not mention, Miss Gwir, is that the Dark Lord might have reached the same conclusion."

The instructor's eyes widened, then a second later her features relaxed.  She gave a nervous laugh.  "Surely not, Professor.  I'm sure that Voldemort is unaware of my existence.  And even if he has somehow heard that there is a Glamour Caster at Hogwarts, I doubt he would pay it any mind.  As I'm sure you know, no one thinks too highly of the Glamours.  I can't imagine he'd see me as a threat."

Snape pitched his voice to a calm, almost reassuring tone, but he did not mince words.  She must be made to understand.  "Voldemort sees _every power as a possible threat, Instructor.  A potential threat or else a potential tool.  And believe me, he is aware of your existence.  He knows also that your arts are more advanced than the ignorant might suppose.  Though you would wish it otherwise, he turns his attention in your direction."_

At this she paled visibly.  "You know this?  You are certain?"

Snape nodded.  "I am certain."

"But why would he think—How would he know—?"

"I am certain, Instructor Gwir," Snape repeated firmly.  "I told him myself."

Her eyes flashed up at him, down at the table, then back to his face.  "Why would you do that?"  Her voice was still controlled but clearly strained.

Snape allowed himself a small sigh.  "_Think, Miss Gwir.  Use your head.  Do you suppose I am the Dark Lord's only informant?  Do you think he turns a blind eye to Hogwarts, knowing that Albus Dumbledore will be his chief opponent?  It is useless for me to conceal information that he will inevitably learn from another source eventually.  Only by being the first one to tell him such things do I maintain my position and thus keep him from pressing his other sources even harder.  If a few key secrets are to be concealed, it is at the cost of relaying other facts before someone else does."_

"Someone else…but who?  Who else would tell him?"

He answered with a humorless chuckle.  "Who do you imagine Voldemort's followers are?  Hideous hags and trolls living in dark caves?  You have probably met Death Eaters besides me, Miss Gwir."  He paused for effect.  "You have certainly met their children."

Her mouth formed a soundless "O" as understanding dawned.  "Who…do you know who they are?"

"Some of them.  Most likely no one but Voldemort knows them all.  It is not in your best interests or mine to give you a complete list.  But since your mother"—with an effort, he kept the sneer from his voice as he pictured Amanda Whistbury—"is clearly acquainted with him, I will tell you that Lucius Malfoy is among them.  I ask you—I advise you in the strongest possible terms—to confide in _no one, but certainly not in _her_.  There must be no chance of the wrong information reaching Lucius."_

It was now Miss Gwir who gave a mirthless laugh.  "You needn't worry on that account, Professor.  I would not confide in my mother that sunlight is bright or water is wet.  I'm not an idiot."

"I don't take you for an idiot, Instructor," he said softly, "but it is difficult for many people to resist discussing things with their families."  It was not a feeling he had ever personally shared, but one that he had learned to be aware of.  "At any rate, I am relieved that we are in agreement as to your mother."  

"Mother and I are hardly close.  We never have been.  Before this week, I hadn't seen her since Grandfather's funeral.  Before that…I'm not sure I remember."

Snape noted the bitter undertone in Gwir's voice, the sudden inward turn of her expression.  He merely nodded.  Though he might be unaware of the details, he understood the broad strokes well enough.  His own parents were no longer living, but there had been long years of estrangement before the final separation of death.  He waited for her to complete whatever path her thoughts were following before continuing with the business at hand.

He moved his eyes away from the Glamour Caster, allowing her a moment to collect herself in privacy.  For a while, he let his gaze drift to the fireplace, watched the flames dancing in the stone hearth.  When he looked back at the woman seated across from him, he noticed the shifting coppery lights the fire brought to her hair, the subtle play of shadows on her motionless features.  Then her attention fixed on him once again.  

"Does Voldemort plan to kill me?"  

Her eyes were wide but steady; she was frightened but not panicked.  And that was good, Snape thought.  Yes, that was perfect.  

"I have convinced the Dark Lord that you are too useful to kill," he said flatly.  "The threat to your safety is not immediate."

She nodded an acknowledgment.  For a moment, her eyes closed.

When she spoke again, her voice sounded terribly young.  "What should I do, Professor?  I never thought…something like this…I never even considered…."  She shook her head, drew a breath, rallying herself.   "But I guess I'll have to consider it now, whether I want to or not."  Her eyes, when they found his, held only a hint of pleading.  "Tell me…tell me what I ought to do."      

Snape did not allow his relief to show, but he felt an internal easing of tension.  This was exactly where he needed her to be.  She understood the danger, but she was calm.  And she was waiting for his advice.

"I see only two feasible options, Miss Gwir.  You can leave Hogwarts as soon as possible and hide.  Or you can stay here and join me in my work."

"Leave Hogwarts and hide…" she echoed.  "Where?  For how long?"

"Normally I would say far away, out of the country.  Given your particular talents, you might disguise yourself in an out-of-the-way place closer at hand.  If that is your choice, no doubt Dumbledore will assist you in making arrangements."

She nodded.  "How long would I have to hide?"

Snape shrugged.  "Until Voldemort is defeated or there is reason to think he is no longer interested in the Glamours."

She chewed her lower lip for a moment, avoiding his eyes.

"I don't want to do that," she said at last.  "I don't know where I'd go or what I'd do.  And I like Hogwarts.  I'm just starting to feel at home here.  I don't…"  She paused, then raised her chin firmly.  "I don't want to run away, Professor."

"If you stay, I cannot guarantee your safety.  I will do what I can to minimize the risks, but I can't promise that I will succeed.  You understand that?"

"There would also be danger if I left Hogwarts, wouldn't there?  A chance that he would look for me?"

"Yes.  But the danger is greater if you remain."

Her cheeks were still very pale and her lips bloodless, but the set of her mouth was stoic.  "I understand."

"Then you must be willing to do as I instruct.  We will have to make it appear that you are lured by the Dark Arts.  You must seem to have thrown your lot in with Voldemort.  And with me."

"Not…" she stumbled over the words, "not openly though, right?  Only if I should meet up with his followers?"

"Not so openly that you seem to lack discretion.  But perhaps enough to raise a few suspicions from those whom you would prefer to have as friends.  Can you accept that?"

"Professor Dumbledore will know the truth?"

"Dumbledore will know.  No one else."

He saw her weighing his words.  After a moment she nodded.

"You are certain?" asked Snape.

She nodded again.  "Yes."

"Then we will begin at once.  This coming week.  To start, you will be instructing me in the Glamours."  He rose from his chair.  "I think we have accomplished enough for today.  I urge you to give these matters careful thought, Instructor Gwir.  If you are going to change your decision, do it soon.  The longer you wait, the more dangerous it will become."

The Glamour Caster stood up as well.  "I will think it over," she agreed solemnly.  "But I don't expect that I will change my mind."

He walked her to the door.  Now that their business was concluded and he was not so intent on reading her reactions, he noticed her dress.  It was a rather simple style, black with a subtle pattern of vines and leaves.  The same dress she had worn—   

He refused to pursue the thought further.

As he opened the door for Instructor Gwir, she laid a hand on his arm.

"I would be…I would be lying if I said I wasn't afraid."  She tipped her head to look up at him.  "But I trust you."

If he were not well-practiced at arranging his features into various masks, he would not have been able to produce a remotely suitable expression.  One should feel flattered by such a statement.  Under the circumstances, one should feel grateful, perhaps relieved.  Snape managed to make his face approximate such sentiments. Swallowed the bitterness, forced it down, down, down.  A sick coldness like the feel of the Dark Mark slid through his chest and settled into his guts.  But he kept it away from his face, out of his eyes.

"I am honored by your trust, Instructor.  But don't stop being afraid.  It is unwise—unhealthy—to be unafraid of Voldemort."  

"I know," she said softly.  "Please be careful, Severus.  Not just for me, but for yourself."  Her hand tightened warmly on his arm.

He nodded stiffly and then—thank the gods—she was gone.  He shut the door quickly and leaned against it, his face pressed to the cool, polished wood.  _I can't do this.  I won't be able to do this.  But he would be able to do it.  He had to be.  _

He took a long, deep breath, listened to the drum of his heartbeat.

_Apparently, I haven't forgotten how to use Imperio__ effectively.  He tried to make his mental voice ironic, its tone comfortably sneering instead of despairing._

_While I was at it, he added a moment later,__ I should have given a few more commands. _

_Trust me, Miss Gwir.  But don't like me._

_Don't touch me._

**tbc****…**


	12. Chapter 12

****

**_ Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**CHAPTER 12**

 Later that same afternoon, Snape was seated in the staff section of the Hogwarts Quidditch stands, surveying the expectantly waiting crowd.  As usual, the whole school, as well as any number of parents and visitors, had turned out for the first match of the season.  The morning's downpour continued unabated, and both teams would have a challenge fighting the wind and rain.  Thanks to the sheltering charms cast on the stands, the spectators would be considerably more comfortable than the players.  It was cold enough that everyone was bundled in scarves and gloves, but at least the spells kept them reasonably dry.

Snape tried not to appear incredibly bored as he stared off at the dismal, low-hanging rain clouds.  He could have happily never sat through another game of Quidditch as long as he lived.  But, as the Head of Slytherin, he could hardly be absent.

The match should begin at any time and the last of the crowd was now filling the stands.  Snape was at the far end of his row and there were still three empty seats between himself and the nearest teacher, Professor Flitwick.  He was happy enough with that arrangement.  If he must spend the afternoon sitting in a noisy crowd in the damp wind that the sheltering charms couldn't completely shut out, at least he wouldn't also be subjected to his colleagues' chit-chat.  

A moment later, however, just as the players were emerging onto the field, he sensed movement out of the corner of his eyes and saw that the seat beside him was being taken.  

"Hello, Professor," said the Glamour Casting Instructor, settling into the seat, then blowing on her gloveless hands for warmth.

Snape gave a brief nod in her direction.  "Instructor."  Then he turned back to the field, not wishing to encourage conversation.  He had seen quite enough of Miss Gwir for one afternoon already.

The Quaffle was thrown into the rain-filled air and seized at once by one of the Slytherin Chasers.  The Chaser,  his green cloak already sodden, swerved through the Hufflepuff defenses and scored.  A roar of applause erupted from the Slytherin students in the stands below, and Snape joined politely in the clapping.

Though he made no particular effort to follow the game, Snape kept his eyes fixed on the darting, swooping players as if the sight of his students flying around in the rain like idiots was far too fascinating to ignore.  He was, nonetheless, aware of a series of restless movements from the seat beside him.  

Eventually, he grew bored enough to throw a sidelong glance at the Glamour Caster.

The woman looked distinctly ill at ease.  Her hands were fidgeting with the edges of her cloak and her expression was strained and grim.  Her complexion seemed to have taken on an unhealthy hue that had not been present a few hours earlier.  When she noticed that he was observing her, she attempted a wan smile.

"You seem rather on edge, Instructor," he said quietly.  "Are you already having second thoughts about the subject of our discussion?"

She shook her head.  "No, it's not that."  Her hands twisted and kneaded at the fabric.  With her chin, she gestured at the crowd around them.  "It's just…all these people.  Crowds like this…they make me nervous."

"Ah," said Snape noncommittally.  

There was a sudden collective gasp at some occurrence on the field that he had missed.  

"Are you such a fan of the game then," he asked when the stands quieted down again, "to brave both the weather and the crowds?"

"No."  She gave a small, strained laugh.  "But Professor Dumbledore made it fairly clear that I was expected to attend.  I'm afraid he finds me too anti-social." 

Snape applauded half-heartedly at whatever it was that people were now cheering about.

"I would prefer to spend the afternoon otherwise as well.  But, as you have noticed, our headmaster is incorrigibly fond of such festivities.  And he does expect his staff to share his enthusiasm."

Gwir merely nodded, but she seemed to grow slightly less fidgety.  They watched the players in silence once again.

A moment or two later, she shifted in her seat and Snape felt her shoulder and upper arm pressing lightly against his own.  When, after several seconds, she didn't move, he shifted his own position to remove the contact.

_Why does she have to be here?  he thought irritably.  _

Actually, the fact that she had chosen to sit next to him was for the best, he had to admit.  It showed that the trust he had forced into her psyche hadn't been dispelled after the end of their previous talk.  And if any news from the Quidditch match should reach Voldemort, a public show of solidarity was advantageous.

_Nevertheless, he added, _does she have to keep touching me_?_

He made an effort to rein in his annoyance.  _She doesn't "keep touching you," said the calmer, more rational part of his mind.   People sitting next to each other happen to brush shoulders from time to time.  _And beyond that, she's done exactly what?  Touched your hand for a second or two.  Given a friendly pat on the arm._  Completely unremarkable and respectable.  She could have done either in the middle of the Great Hall and raised nary an eyebrow_._   _

At least, he continued in his musings, it would have raised no eyebrows if the recipient of those gestures had been anyone other than himself.  

Snape suspected that—in the minds of his students at least, and perhaps most of the faculty as well—touching the Potions Master was much akin to staring down a basilisk.   It was simply not a thing to be contemplated.  Miss Gwir was not being forward; she was simply not avoiding him as most people did.  Accustomed as he was to being given a wide berth, a perfectly normal amount of contact was more noticeable to him than it should be.  More noticeable, no doubt, than she intended.  Wasn't it?

As if to test this hypothesis, his eyes drifted towards the object of his thoughts.  Though she still looked tense and wan, she gave him a smile as soon as she noticed his gaze.  A smile which he promptly returned with a scowl.  She dropped her eyes.

But a moment later, her shoulder was brushing his again.

_Somehow, I miscalculated, he thought.  _

The command he had given her under _Imperio_ had been meant to work merely as a counter-agent.  He had envisioned it doing exactly one thing—counteracting the fear and suspicion she otherwise would have felt.  He had certainly not been trying to elicit warmth.  

_"Trust me."_

At that grim moment, it had seemed like the proper instruction.

_Does one have to like a person to trust them?_

He wouldn't have thought so.

He stole a quick, surreptitious glance at her.  Young.  Pale.  Nervous.  And, it occurred to him, who else did she have to sit with?  There seemed to have been some cooling-off in her friendship with Lupin lately.  She must be, he supposed, rather lonely.

It was a condition he himself took for granted.  Lack of friends and confidants didn't bother him—having never had them, he could hardly miss them.  But no doubt others looked at such things differently.  Other people depended on their fellows in a way that he had never done.  And if such support were suddenly absent….

In that case, Snape concluded, one might seek companionship in unlikely, unpromising places.  Especially given the fact that he had removed those memories and rearranged those instincts that otherwise would have warned her to stay away.  

He sighed.

_How well can you read my feelings, Instructor Gwir?  You read something of the Dark Mark today.  What else are you able to perceive? _

And what would he want her to sense, he asked himself, if she were to turn that concentration on him again?  He carefully formed his thoughts and tried to push them in her direction.

_Leave me alone, Instructor.  Keep your bloody smiles to yourself.  You'll find no answering warmth here.   _

He took another glance in her direction, but if his warnings had reached the Glamour Caster, she gave no sign of it.  Her attention was on the game, or so it appeared.  

Her face was still but her restless fingers traced unconscious spirals on her knees.  

Against his will, Snape's eyes lingered a moment longer.  Young and pale and nervous, yes.  _Nerves taut under his hands.__  And pale skin, soft and smooth, sensitive and shivering.  Melancholy child's eyes so easy to catch and command.  He remembered all too well how her eyes pleaded and suffered prettily._

As if _now catching his thoughts, now that he didn't want her to, Annwyd turned towards him, her expression unguarded and open.  _

He tried to put the whiplash of cold rejection into his eyes.  She saw it—saw _something_—and flinched, but she didn't look away.

_Look away, Instructor, he said silently__.  Because it's safer.  Because I hate you.  Look away._

~ * ~

Slytherin had defeated Hufflepuff by a landslide, 320 to 70.  There was exultation from the Slytherin students and grumbling from everyone else.  As Professor Snape descended from the upper reaches of the stands, he gave the expected smirk to any students or other teachers who caught his gaze.  Annwyd Gwir, making her way down the steps just behind him, was the only person he'd seen who seemed indifferent to the outcome of the match.

Just as they reached ground-level, Snape heard his name called from somewhere off to the right.

"A fine game," the voice continued smoothly.  "Well worth attending, in spite of this less-than-charming weather."  Snape scanned the nearby faces to locate its owner, already certain whom that cultured drawl belonged to.    

"Lucius," he nodded a greeting.  "Good afternoon."

"You'd think, with all his vaunted powers," continued Malfoy, striding forward with Draco in tow, "that Dumbledore could manage to cast a warming charm for the stands.  But, then again, I've always thought his prowess was somewhat…overrated."

Lucius Malfoy, in spite of the fine droplets of moisture clinging to his white-blond hair, looked warm enough in his sumptuous cloak and supple black gloves.  Draco, standing beside him, was soaked from head to toe and spattered with mud, but his face was aglow with his recent triumph.  

Snape turned briefly towards Lucius' son.  "Well done, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco had ended the game by snatching the Golden Snitch from the Hufflepuff Seeker a split second before the other boy could grasp it.  The fact that he had knocked the Hufflepuff from his broom in the process, sending him spiraling twenty feet to land with a wet thump in the mud below, had no doubt added to Draco's moment of glory.  With his pale hair plastered to his head and his pointed, grinning face dripping rain, Draco looked, Snape decided, like a very smug drowned white rat.

"Thank you, Professor."

The elder Malfoy made a movement as if to clasp his son's shoulder, then, noting his sodden and none-too-clean appearance, reconsidered.   Draco was, in any case, soon surrounded by his fellow Slytherins, who were less finicky about slapping him on the back as they enthused over the game.    

"Draco," Lucius interrupted the congratulations, "would that by any chance be your new instructor, the Glamour Caster?"  Snape followed the direction of Malfoy's gaze to see the Annwyd Gwir standing a few paces away, trading pleasantries with Clarice du Bois.  "You should introduce us, don't you think?"

Though Draco would have clearly preferred to revel in the admiration of his housemates, he obediently called out, "Instructor Gwir!" 

Gwir's expression hardened slightly when she saw that it was Draco who was motioning her to join them, but she approached and offered polite congratulations.

"Yes, congratulations," said Lucius coolly to his son, "and your mother of course sends her fond regards."

Draco, seeing that he was dismissed, took his leave and disappeared into the crowd, surrounded by cheering and gloating Slytherins.  

"Ah, Miss Gwir," said Lucius in a warmer tone, turning his attention to the instructor, "I've heard such interesting things about your classes.  How charming to meet you at last."

"Mr. Malfoy, I presume?" she said neutrally, extending her hand for a handshake.

"Lucius Malfoy."  He took her hand and bent gracefully to place a kiss on her fingers.  "Where are your gloves, my dear?" he asked, holding her hand a good deal longer than was, in Snape's opinion, necessary.  "You'll catch a chill."

"It's nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Malfoy," said the Glamour Caster, withdrawing her hand.  "You must be pleased with your son's performance in the match."

"Yes.  I was just about to ask Severus to join me for a drink in honor of this little victory.  Perhaps you will grace us with your company?  It's always a pleasure to become acquainted with Draco's teachers.  And I would love to hear more about your…fascinating specialty."

"I'm afraid I can't make it, but thank you.  I have…I have work that I ought to attend to."

"Severus must be having a bad influence, Miss Gwir.  If you're not careful, you'll become as entombed in those dreadful dungeons as he is.  And that would be a pity for a lovely young woman such as yourself."  Malfoy turned his mocking grey eyes towards Snape.  "You completely failed to convey the charms of your new colleague, Severus," he chided.  Returning his attention to Gwir, he added, "You see what results when you take your work too seriously?  It dulls the senses and dampens the appreciation of life's pleasures.  Now surely your students' essays will keep until tomorrow?"

Gwir shifted her weight from one foot to the other.  "I thank you for the invitation.  But truly, I have little time to spare this weekend…."  Her eyes, holding the hint of a question mark, turned to Snape.

Snape gave an almost imperceptible nod.  "Another time, then, Instructor.  And I will be expecting you on Monday to begin the work we discussed.  At three o'clock, if that will be convenient."

"Yes, that will be fine."  She gave him a hesitant smile.  "I'll look forward to seeing you then.  Good day, Professor."  She nodded towards Snape, then to Malfoy.  "It was nice to meet you."  

As she walked away, Snape saw her approach the edge of the shielding charm that was currently keeping the worst of the rain away from them.  He strode forward with sudden decisiveness and put a restraining hand on her shoulder before she could step into the downpour.  

"There's no need for you to get drenched walking back to the castle."  He withdrew his wand and cast a short-lived shielding spell around her.  "That should see you back in a bit more comfort."

As she thanked him, her smile was warmer and less hesitant.  He also found it less unwelcome than his musings during the game would have predicted, and that thought produced another scowl.  

"You will be of little use if you are sick in bed.  Again." 

For whatever reason, her smile only deepened, and he thought there was a tiny glint of mischief in her expression.  "Do enjoy your drink with Mr. Malfoy, Professor."

"That," growled Snape, "is certainly most unlikely."

~ * ~

An hour later, Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy were comfortably ensconced in a corner booth at the Three Broomsticks.  Clearly they were not the only ones who had opted for a drink in Hogsmeade after the match, and the pub was packed and noisy.  Snape had cast a low-level privacy spell around their table, keeping the background noise to a low buzz and preventing their own voices from carrying distinctly.  The spell would not have been sufficient for matters of great secrecy, but it provided a reasonable degree of protection against casual gossip-mongers and allowed them to talk without shouting over the din.  

With the noise muted, the lamps casting a cheerful glow on the dark wood tables, and a roaring fire in the hearth warming the room, it might have been pleasant enough, Snape conceded.  At least, it might have been pleasant in other company.

Snape had spent the last hour giving Lucius an update on events at Hogwarts.  That was accomplished easily enough.  Most of it was common knowledge and of no real importance.  And, as Snape had learned long ago, Malfoy was often content with uninformative conversation as long as it included a sufficient number of slurs directed at the right people.  A few scathing and well-chosen words about the headmaster, Harry Potter, the Weasleys, and Hogwarts' Muggle-born students satisfied his fellow Death Eater and spared Snape from doling out anything useful.  He was now ready to see if Malfoy had something useful for him.

"A few days ago," he said, keeping his tone light and slightly mocking, "I had the distinct displeasure of meeting Instructor Gwir's mother.  Amanda Whistbury.  I believe you know her?"

"We're acquainted,"  agreed Malfoy, indulging himself in a languid stretch.  "She manages to make herself ubiquitous, so her acquaintance can hardly be avoided."

"How unfortunate."

"Oh, it's not so bad as that."  He settled back comfortably once more.  "She offers a certain amount of amusement.  And since her husband is well-placed at the Ministry, I commend him on choosing a wife who's so very talkative.  Not to mention easily charmed."

"She would have to be talking about something quite extraordinary to be worth charming, in my opinion."  _And, _he added to himself_, whatever exists between Whistbury and Malfoy will certainly merit further investigation._

"Ah, Severus, no one is _ever worth charming, in your opinion, are they?  So I assume, at least, since I've never actually witnessed you being charming."  He gave Snape a winning smile, as if to demonstrate how it was done.  _

Snape responded with a disdainful snort.

"Then again," said Malfoy, "I seem to recall from days gone by that you have other methods of, ah, winning women's affections, shall we say."   

"I can assure you that I have no interest in winning Madam Whistbury's affections_."_  And even less interest in discussing my methods, past or present.__

"Oh yes, I was forgetting.  It's her daughter's affections that concern you."  Lucius took a drink and studied Snape with amused interest.  "I must say, I was a bit surprised to meet your Miss Gwir. I imagined her to be more like her mother, but they seem…quite dissimilar."

"And for that I am truly grateful."

"Not exactly beautiful, is she?  For a Glamour Caster, she's rather…unglamorous."

Snape made no attempt to laugh at this dose of Malfoy wit.  "If glamour entails wearing gaudy jewelry and far too much perfume, then I am happy enough with its absence.  Even after a mercifully brief encounter with the Whistbury woman, I could smell nothing but her flowery reek for the rest of the day."

"What a shame, my friend," replied Lucius, shaking his head.  "I do understand what it must have cost you to find a woman's perfume interfering with the aromas of your dungeons.  A whole day without the intoxicating odors of frog brains and rat spleens.  However did you manage?"

"I have nothing against perfume as such," said Snape coldly, "but I do prefer its wearer to be anointed as opposed to marinated."

Lucius gave an easy laugh.  "Touché, Severus.  I will admit that Amanda's tastes are rather excessive.  That is ever the hallmark of the _nouveau riche_, don't you think?  They _try so hard."  Malfoy drained his glass and signaled the waitress to bring another, every movement demonstrating the effortless grace that was lacking in Whistbury's careful posing.  "I've always believed it takes a number of generations for elegance and taste to seem natural.  Or in your case," he added, eyeing Snape with cool smile, "to be dispensed with altogether."_

Acknowledging that, from Malfoy, this was more or less a compliment, Snape graced his companion with a mostly benevolent smirk.  In Malfoy's circle, one must hail from a respectable family indeed to be allowed to not give a damn with impunity.

The waitress returned with Malfoy's drink and looked at Snape inquiringly.  He waved her away.  His own glass was still two-thirds full.  He had no intention of returning to Hogwarts drunk.

"So," said Malfoy after the waitress had gone, "is your distaste for Amanda the reason you aren't attending her little soiree?"

Snape had no idea what "soiree" Malfoy referred to or why he would be expected to attend.  He therefore kept silent and raised an eyebrow noncommittally, hoping to draw the information out. 

"She's asked for my advice on a suitable escort for Miss Gwir.  I was surprised you weren't taking her yourself, given the, ah, present circumstances.  I imagined you'd be keeping a closer eye on her."

"Oh, but I will be escorting her," Snape said smoothly.  _I will be now that I know about it, at least.  "Madam Whistbury is clearly misinformed."_

Lucius seemed to find this entertaining.  "I'll have to tell her as much.  But I daresay she won't be pleased.  I take it she was no more impressed with your brief encounter than you were."

"Pleasing Amanda Whistbury is not on my agenda.  In fact, I would consider it quite disastrous.  Should she actually find my company enjoyable, she might feel inspired to engage me in conversation at said event, a prospect I find thoroughly unappealing."

"But probably unavoidable," said Malfoy.  "She's most eager to show off her long-lost daughter.  And since the daughter in question will apparently be on your arm, I doubt you'll be able to ignore the mother."

"It won't be for lack of trying," said Snape with an undisguised grimace, wondering just what, when, and where this social nightmare would be.

"Do you know, I didn't realize she _had_ a daughter until last month?  No one did.  Or no one worth mentioning.  It appears that Miss Gwir has been a well-kept secret."

_Interesting, thought Snape.   "But a secret no longer, it seems."_

"True.  Amanda is giving out that the girl was in ill health and unable to make a social debut until now.  But I find that rather unlikely."

"It would hardly account for her never even mentioning her existence," Snape agreed.

"I suppose she was embarrassed about her offspring's unusual talents.  Personally, I find them rather intriguing.  No match for real magic of course, but an interesting curiosity nonetheless.  And her arts have a long and distinguished history, even if they lack the power of conventional spells."

Snape wondered idly whether Malfoy would eat sautéed puffer-fish eyes and proclaim them delicious, provided the dish had a "distinguished history."  Probably so.

Lucius had apparently grown bored with the topic however, and he now turned to other, more delicate matters.  "We spoke before about the small gift you're trying to procure for your friend…."

Snape gave him a look of displeasure.  Stealing an unknown magical item for Lord Voldemort was not a topic he cared to discuss at the Three Broomsticks, privacy charm or not.  He hoped Malfoy would have the sense to be discreet.

"Any news on its availability?" asked Lucius.

Snape shook his head. 

"I've also heard little more about it," Malfoy admitted.  "Only enough to know that our friend will be quite pleased to receive it."  

_And quite displeased if he doesn't, no doubt, thought Snape.  _

"Oh yes," added Malfoy after a moment, toying lazily with his glass, "there was one other bit of news.  If I overheard correctly, there are actually two gifts involved.  Our friend said something to Mulciber about 'a pair of useful trinkets.'  Whether they are to be…purchased…together or separately wasn't clear."

Snape nodded.  He inwardly tensed at the mention of Mulciber, but kept his voice light.  "I assure you that I can manage this bit of shopping without outside assistance. Feel free to tell him so, if you like."

"As long as Miss Gwir accompanies you, I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for.  Women always have a knack for buying presents."

"She will be more than pleased to accompany me," Snape said firmly.

"Oh?" said Malfoy with a smirk.  "I'm glad to hear it.  I wondered, of course, how things were proceeding." 

"Just as they should."

"If you say so," Lucius chuckled.  "From what I saw, she was hardly swooning with adoration.  But then again," his pale eyes gave Snape a deliberate once-over, "that would be expecting a bit much.  I suppose she did seem a trifle friendlier than your colleagues are in general."

Snape stifled the urge to hex the smile off Malfoy's face.

"The situation, as I said, is well in hand."

"She seemed," said Lucius, his expression growing more avid, "rather nervous at our introduction, didn't you think?"

"She dislikes crowds," said Snape curtly.  He was not inclined to give out extraneous information about the instructor, but he also didn't want Malfoy to misconstrue the cause of her agitation.  It would not be wise for Lucius to know that she knew he was a Death Eater, not at this point.  And he couldn't quite stand to let the other man conclude that Miss Gwir had been overwhelmed by meeting a Malfoy.

"And for that matter," added Snape after a short pause, "I have had quite enough of crowds myself for the day."  He swallowed the whiskey remaining in his glass.  "I believe I'll return to the peace and quiet of my 'dreadful dungeons,' as you like to call them."

"You never change, my friend," sighed Lucius.

_I've changed far more than you know, my 'friend,' thought Snape as he walked away_.  __

_And far less than I might have once hoped.___

**tbc****…**


	13. Chapter 13

**_Author's Note:  _**_Many thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far.  I appreciate all your input and look forward to hearing more comments and suggestions as the story progresses.  Hope you continue to enjoy!_

**_ Inscribed in Air & Fire_**

**_~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~_**

**CHAPTER 13**

Annwyd sat cross-legged on the rug of her sitting room.  She'd been working on the Faerie Vision for over an hour and she seemed to be making little progress.  She arched her back and stretched her arms, rolled her shoulders and moved her head in circles, letting some tension ease out of her muscles.  Then she refocused on her task.  It was only a few days until Halloween and she had to finish weaving the glamour by then.

As always, there would be a huge feast for the holiday and the Great Hall would be decorated with all manner of seasonal enchantments.  But not everything would be the same as in years past.  Usually, the students were allowed to go to Hogsmeade on Halloween, where they could spend the day stuffing themselves with sweets from Honeydukes and filling their pockets with the latest exploding gizmos from Zonko's Joke Shop before returning to the castle for the evening feast.  This year, however, Dumbledore was worried about their safety and there would be no excursions to the nearby village.  Students would stay at the school this Halloween.

It was funny, Annwyd mused, how this small change frightened her more than Professor Snape's revelations.  The idea that Lord Voldemort was interested in her, that she might be personally targeted for some kind of dark plan, remained rather difficult to grasp.  She believed Snape, but it was hard to keep the reality of his warnings firmly in mind.  It seemed more like something from a song or a tale, not something that belonged in daily life.

Halloween at Hogsmeade, on the other hand, was a treat she remembered well from her student days.  It was also, according to _Hogwarts, A History, a tradition as old as the village itself.  The fact that this year's youngsters had to remain within the safety of the castle walls was a chilling reminder that the Dark Lord and his servants were really out there.  And she—a completely inconsequential witch who could barely manage to brew a sunburn balm or summon a feather—had somehow become a factor in Voldemort's plans.   _

She pushed the thought aside and returned her attention to the poem she was trying to glamour.  

In an attempt to compensate the students for missing their normal outing, this year's Halloween feast was to be a special one, with games and music and dancing after the meal.  As part of the festivities, Dumbledore had asked the Glamour Caster to entertain them by performing a suitable voice-cast glamour.

She had easily selected a piece for the occasion: "The Raven" by Edgar Alan Poe.  She had loved the poem as a youngster and she and Grandfather had worked together to weave a glamour for it.  Of course, given that she was ten at the time, her contributions to the Faerie Vision were a bit unsophisticated.  Thus she was now reworking the vision with the benefit of her increased abilities.

_Well, allegedly_ increased abilities_, she chided herself.   _

The fact was, she was having difficulty.  The work seemed unaccountably draining and was taxing her resources far more than it should.  And this wasn't the first time she had encountered such a problem in the last week or so.  Although she was loathe to admit it, there seemed to be something wrong with her, some lingering effect of her recent illness or bout of nerves or whatever it had been.  She hadn't mentioned this to anyone—she kept hoping that it would clear up on its own before long—but ever since the day of Madam Pomfrey's visit, she hadn't exactly been her normal self.

Physically, she seemed perfectly fine.  But her emotions and energy felt oddly…diminished.  It was as if there were somehow _less_ of her than there ought to be.  She sighed and shook her head with frustration.  

Normally, she was able to work on voice-cast glamours for hours, quite happily.  Indeed, this was secretly what she would prefer to spend most of her time doing.  The headmaster and the students were understandably more interested in the more practical hand-cast variety of her arts, but Annwyd shared her grandfather's love of poems and songs and stories, and she enjoyed nothing better than creating the Faerie Visions.  In a perfect world, thought Annwyd, there would be a place for the Faerie Bards in wizarding society and she would devote her life to weaving the visions…_like the Lady of Shallot_, she thought with a wistful smile.  

But the days of the Bards were long gone, barely even remembered.  The wizarding world in the here and now was nothing if not practical.  Even the art of magical painting was long neglected.  The school boasted a fine collection of moving portraits and magical landscapes, but how many of them were less than a century old?  Most, indeed, were probably _several_ centuries old.   There were still a few wizard portrait-makers who did official commissions—the headmasters and mistresses of Hogwarts, the Ministers of Magic, and so on—but did anyone create new masterpieces, new techniques?  Sadly, no.  

She thought of her earliest lessons in the proper uses of the Glamours.  _To create what is beautiful_….  That was the purpose that headed the list.  But the list was ages old, a remnant of attitudes that no longer existed.  

Well, Annwyd consoled herself, at least for this one occasion, she was being asked to serve as a Bard, to deliver a Faerie Vision at the feast.  That was a start.    

It also brought her back to her current problem.  She was being asked to do what she loved best and her talent was failing her.  The work was proceeding slowing and awkwardly.  Instead of throwing herself into the vision with the ease and ecstasy of a well-trained dancer responding to music, she was having to struggle with every step like some kind of cripple…like a dancer whose left leg had suddenly gone stiff and numb.  It scared her more than she liked to admit.

And, unfortunately, it wasn't just her voice-casting talents that were affected.   The mysterious ailment, whatever it was, impeded her work with hand-cast glamours as well.  In yesterday's class, she had called up Grandfather, as she often did, to assist her with the lesson, and after a mere twenty minutes she had found herself weak and dizzy, as tired as if she had spent hours glamouring a flock of dragons.  And this was _Grandfather, for Merlin's sake—the most well-known and effortless glamour imaginable!  She was used to calling him up for hours on end with no notable expenditure of energy.  Something was very, very wrong.  Worst of all, since she was the only Glamour Caster at Hogwarts, there was absolutely no one who could help her._

She had considered consulting with Dumbledore, but what could he do?  Powerful as he was, he freely admitted his ignorance of her arts.  He would probably just suggest that she visit Pomfrey, but the nurse had already examined her and found nothing.  And if the headmaster knew that her talents were failing her, what would happen then?  

She remembered sitting in his office years ago.  McGonagall and Flitwick had already said their piece and been dismissed.

"_Miss Gwir," the old wizard had said gently, "__I must ask you two questions.  Please consider them carefully and answer truthfully.  First, if I allow you to remain at Hogwarts, would you swear by the most solemn oaths that you would never use the Glamours to cheat on another assignment?"_

_"Yes, Headmaster."___

_"Very good.__  And the second question, Miss Gwir" —there had been a pause that seemed to last forever—  "_have you cheated on these assignments because it's _easier__? Or because you couldn't do the regular magic?"    _

_"I couldn't do it, Sir.  I tried and tried.  I never used the Glamours if I could do it the regular way.  I didn't want__ to cheat, honestly…I tried to do it right."   _

In her nervousness and embarrassment, she hadn't understood where he was headed.  She had only hoped that he might understand, that he might not judge her deception too harshly.

_"So if you were to take the classes again, without using the Glamours, do you think you could succeed?"_

His voice had remained mild, but suddenly she had realized what was happening.  And by then it had already been too late.  Perhaps it had always been too late.  She had merely shaken her head, eyes on the floor.

_"Then, sadly, Miss Gwir, I must conclude that there is no point in your remaining here at Hogwarts."_

That had been twelve years ago.  She was no longer a scrawny little girl.  But if she had to hear those words again, Annwyd didn't think the years would make them any better.  As long as she could manage to teach her classes, she wouldn't tell Dumbledore she was struggling.  She simply couldn't stand to take the risk, couldn't face being sent away again.

Annwyd decided to take a brief nap.  It was Sunday, so there were no classes to deal with, and after a bit of rest, she could tackle the Faerie Vision again.  Luckily she didn't have to weave the glamour from scratch; she only wanted to polish it up a bit.  She could do it.  Difficult or not, she would make it perfect.  A little more sleep was probably all she needed.

She stood up, stretched again, and walked into the bedroom.  She had quickly grown to love this room—the massive canopy bed covered in soft velvets of burgundy, dark green, and gold, the warm gleam of the wooden chest of drawers and carved wardrobe, the friendly glow of the lamps on the bedside tables, even the scatter of clothes and shoes and favorite books.  It felt like home.  

She stretched out on the bed, flat on her back, and closed her eyes.  After a few minutes, however, she realized that however appealing a nap sounded in theory, she was in reality not sleepy.  Drained, perhaps, but wide awake nonetheless.  

Staring up at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the room, she wanted very badly to glamour Grandfather.  His face would be a welcome sight, and his voice would keep her company.  The room felt entirely too quiet.  Her handed started to draw the pattern then stopped.  She had work to do and her inner resources seemed so limited at the moment that she couldn't justify expending the energy just for comfort.  

_Maybe he could help me though, help me figure out what's wrong…_

Well, perhaps he could, but she didn't need his likeness to know what he'd suggest.  _"Do your lessons, my little ring-tailed lemur."  _She smiled.  That's exactly what he'd say, and he'd be right.  She'd been neglectful lately of the practice she kept foisting on her students.  She could almost hear Grandfather chuckle at her hypocrisy.  _"Now might be a good time to practice what you preach."_

She started, as always, by reciting the proper uses of the Glamours.  Then she closed her eyes and began the focusing process.  Starting with her toes and working up through the rest of her body, she slowly tensed and relaxed every voluntary muscle.  When she was finished, her body had taken on the familiar sensation of being both lighter and heavier than normal.  She was minutely aware of the force of gravity pushing her against the firm mattress, and yet, at the same time, she seemed to float.  

She began the most basic of the breathing meditations, by focusing awareness on the sound of her inhales and exhales, letting her mind exclude everything except that gentle noise.  Then she allowed her awareness to expand slightly, moving beyond the sound to include the feel of the air in her nostrils…her throat…her lungs.  Nothing but the sound and feel of the air, in and out.  After an unmeasured space of time, her perceptions extended further and encompassed the workings of her diaphragm, the movement of her abdomen, the slight expansion of her ribcage with each inhalation.  For a small eternity, she was nothing but breath, nothing but a conscious apparatus for pulling in air and pushing it out again.  Then, with another effortless leap, her heart came into awareness, its beat a counterpoint to the slow rhythm of respiration.  Now there was breath and pulse and the blood coursing through her veins in its endless flow, a simple repetitive music of steady rhythm and ceaseless movement.  Gradually, everything else in her body joined the song, from the quiet patience of the bones to the fleeting sparks between the nerves.  She was alive.  She was aware.  She was awareness.

Annwyd was a cloud of mist that filled her body and overflowed it.  She was wheels of colored light and octaves of sound.  She was an unpronounceable word spelled out in runes of power.  She was one tiny word in an endless book of incantations, yet she was also the whole book, and the writer of the book.  It was all one.  She flowed out into the universe and it flowed into her and the energy moved through her, bright and glorious, and then—

The rhythm faltered.  She drew a breath that seemed forced and out of sync.  In that shimmering net of energy, she could suddenly sense a barrier, a walled-off spot that was dark and disconnected from the flow.  There should be something there—a pattern, a hum of vibration, a hue of light—but there was nothing, only emptiness.  She tried to push her awareness through it, or around it, tried to preserve the dance of energy, but the rhythm was broken.  The blank spot seemed to eclipse the hub of a spinning wheel—a focal point where many threads of energy should be joined—and with that critical juncture missing, the shimmering web collapsed.  The force she had drawn into herself leaked out again like water through a sieve, and she was only a woman lying on a bed in a quiet room, feeling terribly tired and confused.

With a groan of frustration and a feeling of defeat, Annwyd stood up, thinking of drowning her troubles in a hot bath.  Just then, she heard a clicking sound at the window and looked up to see a nondescript owl perched outside on the ledge.  Wondering who would be sending her a message, she opened the window and the bird fluttered in.  

After taking the message and rewarding the bird with a bit of biscuit left over from lunch, she sat down with the folded note, eyeing it curiously.  The only person she was expecting to hear from was Mother, and the departing owl was far too plain to belong to her.  She smoothed out the scrap of parchment and read the lines of meticulous, angular script:

_Instructor Gwir,_

_It has come to my attention that your mother is hosting a social event at which your presence is required.  Under the circumstances, I think it unwise for you to be chaperoned by a wizard of Madam Whistbury's choosing.  Kindly inform her that I will be your escort._

_--S. Snape_

~ * ~

Annwyd added a bit more scented oil—vanilla and almond—to the steaming water, then lolled back in the huge tub and closed her eyes.  Predictably enough, she was soon thinking of Snape's message.  Well, worrying about Mother's awful party was, she supposed, at least a respite from fretting about her more serious problems.  Sliding further down in the fragrant bathwater, she indulged herself in a good emotional wallow regarding Mother, the upcoming party, and the unexpected note.

She was sorely tempted to concoct an excuse, owl Mother with her regrets, and forget the whole debacle.  She was an adult now, after all.  Mother couldn't force her to attend.  Annwyd wished she could find the gumption to send a polite but firm note to that effect, but she knew she wouldn't.  

She wished she didn't still feel, after all these years, the compulsion to make one more futile effort to please her mother.  Because that's what it came down to, wasn't it?  Another doomed attempt to be charming, sophisticated, and successful, to finally prove her value, to finally make Mother proud.  She knew it wouldn't happen, but she also knew that she couldn't resist trying.  It was stupid and irrational, but that's how things had always been between her and Mother, and she didn't see the pattern changing soon.  

The gods knew this party would be a nightmare; of that she was absolutely certain.  Mother's company was always a trial, and as for _Mr_. Whistbury—well, she preferred not to think about him.  And if Lucius Malfoy was representative of Mother's current friends, then Annwyd was sure she'd find no pleasure in the other guests either.

_Malfoy.  Annwyd shivered unpleasantly in spite of being immersed in a hot bath.  She had been unable to read him very clearly at yesterday's Quidditch match—there were several hundred people packed into the field and stands, hundreds of subtle bodies jostling her perceptions into chaos—but when Malfoy had taken her hand in his and pressed his lips lightly against her fingers, her spinal cord had instantly turned to ice water.  She had tried her best to act normal and polite, but she had rarely been so glad to escape another person's presence.  _

Good gods, had she ever thought of _Snape_ as cold?  She took it back.  The Potions Master might be formal, guarded, and difficult to read—not to mention glowering, foul-tempered, and arrogant—but she was never going to consider him _cold_ again.  Behind the professor's scowls and withering glances, she was certain there was something resembling a human being.  Behind Malfoy's charming smile and easy courtesies, there was, she suspected, nothing but an arctic wasteland.

_An evening of Mother and Malfoy and a date with Professor Snape, she thought wryly, sponging soap over her arms and shoulders.  Snape would no doubt give her an especially dour grimace if she was stupid enough to refer to it as "a date" within his hearing.  His note had made that clear enough; it was hard to imagine a less romantic invitation.  Not that she would have expected anything different.  But why bother sending an owl at all?  That seemed a bit ridiculous when he was only a staircase and a few corridors away, and he'd be seeing her tomorrow at any rate.  Well, knowing Snape, he undoubtedly found the whole idea deeply distasteful—thinking of past social occasions spent with her mother, she couldn't entirely blame him—and wanted to dispatch the arrangements with as little conversation as possible.  _

And that was probably for the best, Annwyd decided.  If he had asked her face-to-face—well, he hadn't exactly _asked_—but nevertheless, if he had _informed_ her of his plan in person, she might well have blushed and stammered like a idiot.  Because, she conceded reluctantly, she had very much wished that he could escort her.  Mother's galas were always nerve-wracking, even without the frightening knowledge that some of her friends were Death Eaters, and Snape's presence would be…reassuring.  And beyond that—

She scrubbed her back vigorously.  There _was no "beyond that."  For better or worse, her relationship with Severus Snape was strictly one of politics and necessity.  That was how __he saw it, at least.  She was irked by his use of the word "chaperone" in the note—did he think she was still a student?—but in a sense, it was closer to the mark than "escort."  He was going to the party to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't get into trouble with Malfoy or other unsavory friends of Mother's.  She sluiced water over her shoulders with a sigh._

She was attracted to the Potions Master; there was no point in denying it.  But there was even less point in denying that the feeling wasn't mutual.  Professor Lupin had been right, Annwyd concluded sadly. Snape had been treating her decently for a reason, and it was, as her friend had predicted, a reason she didn't like.  She didn't agree with all of Lupin's assessments—Snape was trustworthy enough; she felt perfectly certain of that—but for the most part Lupin had been right on the mark.  Snape's interest clearly wasn't romantic or even friendly.

Over the last week or so Annwyd had, for no reason she could pin down precisely, felt closer to the professor than before.  His manner was still inclined to be forbidding.  He never returned a smile, never used her given name.  Nothing had really changed in his interactions.  But something had changed for her.  The almost palpable physical barrier that had always seemed to exist between them had been breached with surprisingly little effort.  On several occasions now, she had found excuses to touch his hand or brush against his arm—nothing worth mentioning, really, but it was more contact than she would have thought likely a few weeks ago.  And the results were quite unfortunate.  These casual interactions had done nothing to dispel her half-acknowledged infatuation, as she had formerly hoped they might.  On the contrary, they left her tingling with an uncomfortable warmth and longing for much more than a quick clasp of fingers or brush of shoulders.  Snape, however, seemed entirely unmoved.  He was unresponsive to her efforts at injecting warmth or humor into their dealings, and if he dealt with her a bit more kindly than with others, it was motivated by a sense of duty and nothing more.  He had decided, for reasons that were clear after yesterday's talk, that being nice to the nervous new instructor was strategically expeditious, and his actions stemmed from that, entirely calculated and impersonal.  Lupin was probably right—the Potions Master didn't have a romantic bone in his body.  And even if he did, he wasn't

interested in _her_.     

_It's just as well, Annwyd told herself reprovingly__.  He's an unpleasant man, petty and mean to his students, and barely civil to his colleagues most of the time.  He's involved with Voldemort, and even if it's for a good cause, that's a dangerous can of worms.  All in all, you couldn't pick a worse potential lover. And he's not even handsome.  _

She was almost convinced.

As she half-heartedly sponged one leg and then the other, Annwyd's thoughts drifted back to yesterday's conversation in Snape's chambers.  She knew that she hadn't completely processed the discussion and its implications, and she would be wise to give it some serious thought.  It was going to take time to wrap her mind around the entirety of what she had learned, but she might as well get started.

The Potions Master was a spy.  That fact had settled into her mind more solidly than the rest, probably because it made a certain amount of sense.  Little wonder that his demeanor was reserved and his defenses were all but impenetrable.  Her knowledge of Voldemort and his servants was sketchy at best, but the idea of infiltrating the Dark Lord's inner circle made her tremble.  And Snape was apparently doing exactly that.  She couldn't help but be impressed by the man's courage.

Now Snape had entrusted her with his secret, and she was going to have dredge up some courage of her own to make sure she didn't betray his trust.  _I'm not suited for this, complained part of her mind._  I'm a Ravenclaw, for heaven's sake, not some adventurous Gryffindor or crafty Slytherin.  What on earth does Snape expect from me? What on earth does _Voldemort__ expect from me?_

She pushed the thought aside to be dealt with later.  _Her role in this drama was not something she was comfortable examining too closely, not just yet.  Better to concentrate on Snape for the moment and ignore her own involvement as best she could._

It had been odd yesterday, being in his private chambers.  She had never been there before—had never seen him in anything but an academic setting, had never seen him dressed in anything other than his teaching robes—and she had engaged in a bit of idle speculation before the meeting.  Did he wear those same black robes in private?   Were his quarters as spartan and orderly as his classroom and office?  Did he, as the students were apt to whisper, keep bottles of pickled animals on his mantelpiece?  Or was he a closet hedonist with an unknown taste for gilt and luxury?

Most of this had turned out exactly as she suspected:  He was not wearing his teaching robes, but his "casual" dress was hardly that—tailored black wool trousers and a plain white linen shirt, immaculate and buttoned to the throat.  The only room she had seen—a combination of library, office, and sitting room—was neither a gothic horror nor a sumptuous surprise.  The room was spacious, the chairs comfortable, and the atmosphere not especially gloomy, but it lacked the extraneous objects of a normal dwelling.  There was no evidence of anything that didn't serve a purpose—no art, no mementos, no declarations of personal style.  

_So, Annwyd wondered_, what was odd about it?   _Had she really expected a torture chamber or an elegant salon?  Had she expected that Snape would be wearing something __colorful?  _

No, she decided, the oddness was quite the reverse.  It had all seemed _too much as expected.  As soon as she walked into the chamber, she was struck with a sense of déjà vu—of _course_ the fireplace would be centered on the wall to the left of the door, the armchairs arranged just so, and the large oak table situated precisely there.  Of course the rug in front of the hearth would be dark blue and green with a touch of grey, and small enough to leave most of the stone floor bare.  As for Snape himself—_

Annwyd squirmed deeper into the bath with a flush of guilt.  In recent days, and nights, she had spent more time than she cared to admit wondering what the Potions Master would look like in something less concealing than those billowing robes.  It was nevertheless a little disconcerting to find that her mental image matched reality so perfectly.  She had known, it seemed, exactly how his trousers would be tailored (cut slim from ankle to waist without actually being tight, emphasizing his tall, slim build) and what kind of buttons his shirt would have (plain and the color of new parchment, just a shade or two darker than the shirt itself).  She had known precisely how the fabric would lay over the lean muscles of arms and chest, and—

She dunked her head under the water abruptly, and realized that the bath had grown tepid, almost cool.  In spite of that, she kept her head under until she was completely out of breath   When she finally surfaced for air, she scolded herself for being an idiot.  Snape had met with her to discuss something important—something _dangerous._  She had promised to consider the conversation carefully.  And she was obsessing about the color of his _buttons_?  She squeezed the water from her hair.  _Annwyd Gwir, your priorities are in _serious_ need of revision._  

After quickly washing her hair, she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and got dressed.  Settling into her favorite chair with a quill, a sheet of parchment, and a book to write on, she penned a brief note to her mother.

_Dear Mother,_

_Thank you for your visit.  It was lovely to see you and I'm glad that you're doing well.  I'm looking forward to the party and I'm sure it will be delightful. _

_Also, I wanted to let you know that you won't have to bother finding an escort as I'll be attending with Professor Snape  I'm sure you would have picked someone charming, but this arrangement will be for the best.  _

_I received a note yesterday from your dressmaker requesting measurements, but she didn't mention what the dress will look like.  I hope you asked her for something reasonably simple and conservative.  And not pink, please.  _

Annwyd stopped writing as her head filled with visions of Mother's parties from years gone by—visions dominated by awful confections of ruffles and lace.  The prospect of being introduced to half of wizarding London wearing something hideous, bright, and beribboned was far from appealing.  The thought that Snape would see it as well was even worse.

_I swear if you send me anything made of taffeta, I will wear my oldest sweater and trousers instead._

_Best regards and greetings to Mr. Whistbury as well._ I hope you have a good week.__

_Love,_

_Annwyd_

As she folded the note and headed for the Owlery, Annwyd felt better for having asserted herself on _something.  She might have to pretend to be happy about the party.  She might have to be polite to Lucius Malfoy.  She might even have to act like she wanted nothing more or less than to be "chaperoned" by Severus Snape.  But she did __not have to wear pink taffeta.  _

~ * ~

Several dozen owls of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions blinked at Annwyd with mid-afternoon sleepiness and mild annoyance.  After surveying their quietly rustling, feathery forms for several seconds, she chose a large barn owl that looked more alert than most and gently attached her message to his leg.  Large gold eyes regarded her expectantly and she wondered if she should have brought a treat.  Then, with a bit of concentration, she realized the owl wanted to be scratched, and obligingly stroked the soft brown feathers at his throat.  The yellow eyes closed in contentment for a moment, then he abruptly spread his wings and flapped off the perch, circled the Owlery once, then soared through a high, open window.  

Errand accomplished, Annwyd departed from the Owlery and decided to take a stroll before returning to her rooms and the Faerie Vision.  She thought longingly of a visit to the forest but decided against it.  Yesterday's downpour had quieted to a steady drizzle by midnight and stopped altogether by mid-morning, but the clouds were still low and heavy, threatening more rain before nightfall.  She would rather not be caught out in the forest during a storm.

Instead, she chose to amble down to the lake.  The normally blue water was painted in shades of grey and heavy banks of fog clung to the shore.  The castle, though not far away, appeared pale and distant as a dream, towers rising out of a sea of mist.  The leafless branches of a few nearby trees were wet and black.  Her footsteps were almost inaudible, swallowed by the fog, as she meandered over the sodden grass and down to the water's edge.  

Wandering the shoreline, Annwyd gazed at the grey and black tableau of castle, lake and trees.  The ominous clouds and ragged trailers of mist transformed the normally cheerful and familiar Hogwarts grounds into a scene that was strangely picturesque and eerie.  Though she knew the school was full of bright rooms and packed with students, it looked forbidding and haunted, a home for restless spirits, not boisterous children.  Her thoughts produced a small, private smile.  The day was certainly conducive to weaving a Halloween glamour.

As she let her gaze glide across the mist-shrouded shore, however, it was not Poe's raven that came to mind but the Erl King, the dark faerie who lured unwary mortals to their ruin.  Without premeditation, she found herself singing, her voice soft at first, but stronger and richer as the ballad continued.   

_ She said, "My love, wait not for me _

_"To come back from my roaming.___

_"Wait not beneath the apple tree_

_"In evening's purple gloaming.___

_"I once rode out so proud and free through fields and forests singing,_

_"But I'll not wander home to thee, for I have kissed the Erl King._

_"Once my heart was true and strong_

_"And never wished thee harm.___

_"At evening's end I only longed _

_"To sleep within your arms.___

_"But now I wander night and day in search of one thing only:_

_"To hear the sound of pipes that play so sweet and sad and lonely. _

_"I should have heard what I was told: _

_"You warned me not to stray_

_"Out where the soulless Faerie Folk_

_"Could steal my heart away.___

_"But I rode out so proud and free midst hills and hollows singing,_

_"And I'll not wander home to thee, for I have kissed the Erl King._

_"Now nevermore my soul will rest_

_"At peace with hearth and home,_

_"But ever follow east or west_

_"The path the cold wind blows._

_"For I have looked in eyes as dark as __midnight__ cold and starless_

_"And fingers silver-white entwined my hair and left me breathless._

_"And so, my love, wait not for me_

_"To come back from my roaming.___

_"Wait not beneath the apple tree_

_"In evening's purple gloaming.___

_"I'll never wander home to thee past mill and meadow singing. _

_"My heart is wild but never free, for I have kissed the Erl King."_

As the last line of the song faded into the cold air, a sharp voice made Annwyd whirl around in surprise.

"A rather romantic treatment of the subject matter, Miss Gwir."  

Professor McGonagall was striding out of the mist, followed by Lupin.  The Transfiguration Professor was wrapped in a grey wool cape and plaid scarf, and her face, as always, was set in a mask of prim disapproval.

"But quite interesting," added Lupin, with his characteristic smile.  "You have a lovely voice, Instructor."

Annwyd flushed.  "Thank you, Remus.  I didn't realize I had an audience."  She was embarrassed that she hadn't sensed their approach.  _I must have been more engrossed in the song than I realized.  She nodded politely at McGonagall.  "Minerva."_

McGonagall returned the nod with a curt tip of her head.  

"So you're familiar with Muggle myth and literature?" ventured Annwyd.

"Certainly," said the older witch.  "But in my readings, the Erl King is mostly portrayed as a fearsome figure—a harbinger of death and a stealer of children's souls.  I've never come across this particular lovelorn version."

"Oh," said Annwyd, feeling the blush spreading over her face.  "Well, I wrote this one myself."

"Ah," said Minerva.  "How sentimental."

Annwyd could feel the woman's distaste prickling at her through the cold air, and she unconsciously moved a step closer to Lupin.  She felt steadied by a wave of sympathetic support and flashed him a quick look of gratitude.

"It is a bit more romantic than most treatments of the Erl King, but I don't think it's entirely out of character," said Annwyd.  "After all, the Erl King doesn't procure his victims by force, but by persuasion.  By seduction, if you will."  She wondered if it would have been smarter to let the subject drop rather than attempting to defend herself.  Discussing seduction with Minerva McGonagall was not exactly comfortable, even in a literary context. 

"Hmmm.  I suppose you're right."  The conciliatory words were not accompanied, however, by any softening of McGonagall's face or aura.  "The dark faeries are often portrayed as preying on the minds and emotions of their mortal victims, using visions of sensual delights to lure unwitting humans to their doom."

"Yes, that's true," said Annwyd cautiously, half her attention on the woman's words, and half on the tension filling the air between them.

"Perhaps the myths were inspired by encounters with Glamour Casters."

Annwyd stiffened at the clear insult but kept her voice calm.  "Yes, perhaps so.  But it would have to be Glamour Casters of the most unscrupulous sort, those who didn't follow the proper uses of the arts."

"There are a few bad apples in every barrel," interjected Lupin.

"Indeed there are," said McGonagall, "which is all the more reason one must choose one's companions with care.  Today, as in the past, one must seek out those of honesty and integrity.  Good afternoon, Instructor."  Giving Annwyd another curt nod, she turned to Lupin.  "I believe it's time we returned to Gryffindor Tower."

"I need to have a word with Miss Gwir," said Lupin.  "I'll catch up with you in a moment."

"As you wish."  McGonagall walked away, quickly disappearing in the heavy mist.

Lupin put a comforting hand on Annwyd's shoulder.  "Don't pay her too much mind," he said quietly.

Annwyd merely nodded, not quite trusting her voice at the moment.

"And really, the song was lovely."

She managed a grim half-smile.  "Thanks."  

After a moment or two of companionable silence, she added, "You'd think she might get over it by now and give me a chance.  It was years ago, and I _was_ only fourteen at the time."

"I know," said Lupin.  "But I'm afraid anything that might count as 'academic dishonesty' rubs Minerva's fur the wrong way.  Now maybe if you'd been a Gryffindor…" He trailed off and gave her a wink.

Annwyd giggled.  "She is awfully partial to them, isn't she?  Almost as bad as Snape and his Slytherins."

"Don't tell her I said so," Lupin grinned, "but you're absolutely right."

Annwyd felt the tension easing, and realized how much she'd missed Lupin recently.  They hadn't shared a meal or spoken more than a few words for the past two weeks, maybe longer.  She was about to tell him so when he spoke again.

"I should be getting back.  Minerva and I still have some business to go over, but…well, there's something I need to talk with you about when we have a chance."

"I'd like that," said Annwyd.

He gave her another smile and a little bow and strode off in the direction of the castle.  Annwyd lingered a while longer by the lake until the first raindrops started falling.  Then she hurried back to the warmth of her quarters and the work that she needed to finish by Halloween.

**tbc****… **

_Note:  _

_The ballad that Annwyd sings in the last section of this chapter was written by me as part of the story. _

_If you're familiar with the music of Dead Can Dance, I am imagining the ballad being sung to the melody of "The Wind that Shakes the Barley."  _

_Elsewhere in my fanfic, poems/songs by other writers may appear, and I will always credit the author either in notes or in the surrounding text.  _


End file.
